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DATE 
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;U8  5  3  1995 


SEP  29 


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tEtje  Hibersfoe  ^Literature  Series 


SOUTHERN  POEMS 

SELECTED,  ARRANGED  AND  EDITED 
WITH  BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES 


BY 


CHARLES  W.  KENT 

PROFESSOR  OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 
UNIVERSITY  OF  VIRGINIA 


BOSTON    NEW  YORK    CHICAGO 

HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 
(Cfce  fttoettfibe  $re$£  Cambridge 


COPYRIGHT,    I9I3,    BY    HOUGHTON   MIFFLIN   COMPANY 
ALL   RIGHTS   RESERVED 


PREFACE 

These  poems  are  selected  from  the  wide  range  of 
Southern  poetry,  that  the  South's  contribution  to  our 
national  literature  may  be  in  part  apprehended.  For 
a  long  time  the  productions  of  Southern  writers  were 
so  inaccessible  that  authors  of  text-books  on  American 
Literature  were  disposed  to  neglect  them  altogether ; 
and  even  later  the  admission  of  any  Southern  author, 
save  one  or  two  of  international  fame,  was  somewhat 
grudging  and  apologetic.  In  recent  years,  especially 
since  the  publication  of  the  Library  of  /Southern 
Literature,  by  which  a  new  perspective  for  American 
literature  was  afforded,  fuller  treatment  has  been 
accorded  these  Southern  authors  ;  but  very  few  stu- 
dents1 of  American  literature  have  yet  comprehended 
clearly  and  fully  that,  for  some  periods  of  our  literary 
history  and  in  some  significant  and  far-reaching  move- 
ments, literature  in  the  South  has  been  the  dominant 
and  controlling  factor. 

These  selections,  however,  have  not  been  made  to 
establish  any  cause  or  exemplify  any  theory,  but  partly 
to  'illustrate  chronological  development,  and  mainly  to 
portray  Southern  life  and  sentiment  in  poems  of  indi- 
vidual literary  merit.  In  giving  preference  to  such 
poems  as  reveal  characteristics  of  Southern  climate, 
conditions,  and  life,  the  danger  has  not  been  escaped 
of  presenting  an  occasional  sentiment  heated  by  the 

£*o  i  A  notable  exception  is  Dr.  C.  Alphonso  Smith,  in  his  Amer- 
/^  ikanische  Literatur,  published  by  Weidniannische  Buchhandlung, 
"*""   Berlin,  Germany. 


iv  PREFACE 

passions  of  war  or  heightened  by  the  presence  of  a  dra- 
matic crisis.  It  would  be  strange  indeed  if  at  that  time 
no  such  sentiment  were  cherished  or  uttered  :  it  would 
be  even  stranger  to-day  if  we  could  not  read  these 
sentiments  with  the  sympathy  that  belongs  to  their 
circumstances  or  the  intellectual  detachment  that  be- 
longs to  ours.  As  a  nation  we  can  recognize  the  lit- 
erary merit  of  the  Battle  Hymn  of  the  Republic  and 
Maryland,  My  Maryland,  even  though  as  individuals 
we  may  not  commend  all  the  sentiments  of  either. 

In  choosing  these  poems  free  use  has  been  made  of, 
first,  the  Library  of  Southern  Literature,  edited  by 
Charles  W.  Kent  and  others,  published  by  the  Martin 
&  Hoyt  Company,  Atlanta,  Georgia  ;  second,  Three 
Centuries  of  SouthernPoetry,  edited  by  Carl  Holliday, 
published  by  the  Publishing  House  of  the  Methodist 
Church,  South,  Nashville,  Tennessee  ;  third,  Songs  of 
the  South,  edited  by  Jennie  Thornley  Clarke,  pub- 
lished by  J.  B.  Lippincott  Company,  Philadelphia. 
Acknowledgments  to  holders  of  copyright  are  made 
at  appropriate  points  throughout  the  following  pages. 


CONTENTS 

Unknown. 

Bacon's  Epitaph 1 

St.  George  Tucker:  1752-1828 

Resignation  :  or,  Days  of  My  Youth 2 

Francis  Scott  Key:  1779-1843 

The  Star-Spangled  Banner 3 

Richard  Henry  Wilde:  1789-1847 

My  Life  is  like  the  Summer  Rose 5 

Samuel  Henry  Dickson:  1798-1872 

I  sigh  for  the  Land  of  the  Cypress  and  Pine  ....       6 

Edward  Coote  Pinkney:  1802-1828 

A  Health 7 

William  Gilmore  Simms  :  1806-1870 

The  Swamp  Fox 8 

Edgar  Allan  Poe  :  1809-1849 

Israfel 11 

Annabel  Lee 13 

The  Raven 15 

Albert  Pike  :  1809-1891 

Ode  to  the  Mocking-Bird 21 

Alexander  Beaufort  Meek  :  1814-1865 

Land  of  the  South 23 

Philip  Pendleton  Cooke  :  1816-1850 

Florence  Vane 25 

Theodore  O'Hara  :  1820-1867 

The  Bivouac  of  the  Dead 27 

Philo  Henderson  :  1822-1852 

The  Long  Ago 30 


vi  CONTENTS 

Francis  Orray  Ticknor  :  1822-1874 

Little  Giffen \     ...  32 

John  Reuben  Thompson  :  1822-1873 

Music  in  Camp 33 

Carcassonne 36 

The  Window-Panes  at  Brandon 38 

Margaret  Junkin  Preston  :  1820-1897 

Before  Death 40 

The  Shade  of  the  Trees 42 

Gone  Forward 43 

James  Barron  Hope  :  1829-1887 

Washington  —  Pater  Patriae 44 

Our  Anglo-Saxon  Tongue 46 

Henry  Timrod  :  1829-1867 

A  Common  Thought 47 

Ode  for  Decoration  Day 48 

The  Cotton  Boll 49 

Paul  Hamilton  Hayne  :  1830-1886 

My  Study 54 

The  Pine's  Mystery 55 

The  Will  and  the  Wing 55 

A  Dream  of  the  South  Winds 56 

In  Harbor 58 

James  Ryder  Randall  :  1839-1908 

Maryland =     .     .  59 

Abram  J.  Ryan  :  1836-1886 

The  Conquered  Banner 62 

The  Sword  of  Lee 64 

A  Land  without  Ruins 65 

Better  than  Gold 66 

Thaddeus  Oliver  :  1826-1864 

All  Quiet  Along  the  Potomac  To-night 68 

Henry  Throop  Stanton  :  1834-1899 

The  Moneyless  Man 70 


CONTENTS  vii 

Marie  La  Coste:  18- 

Soniebody's  Darling 72 

Sidney  Lanier  :  1842-1881 

Ballad  of  Trees  and  the  Master 73 

The  Mockingbird 74 

John  Henry  Boner  :  1845-1903 

Poe's  Cottage  at  Fordham 75 

Mollie  E.  M.  Davis  :  1852-1909 

Counsel      .     .     .     , 77 

Maurice  Thompson:  1844-1902 

Nectar  and  Ambrosia 78 

The  Bluebird      . 79 

Frances  Christine  Tiernan  :  1846- 

Regret 80 

John  B.  Tabb  :  1845-1909 

Intimations 82 

Keats 83 

Killdee 83 

A  Trysting-Place 84 

Marguerite  E.  Easter:  1839-1894 

The  Wind-storm 84 

Maple  Leaves 85 

Samuel  Mint urn  Peck :  1854- 

The  Grapevine  Swing .86 

William  Hamilton  Hayne  :  1856- 

Vernal  Prophecies 87 

A  Sea  Lyric 88 

Danske  Dandridge  :  1861- 

To  my  Comrade  Tree 89 

Madison  Cawein  :  1865- 

The  Whippoorwill 91 

Evening  on  the  Farm 92 


viii  CONTENTS 

Walter  Malone  :  1866- 

Opportunity 95 

Florida  Nocturne 96 

Harry  Stillwell  Edwards  :  1855- 

The  Vulture  and  his  Shadow 97 

William  Gordon  McCabe  :  1841- 

Dreaming  in  the  Trenches 98 

Daniel  Bedinger  Lucas  :  1836-1909 

The  Land  Where  We  Were  Dreaming 100 

Mary  McNeil  Fenollosa  :  18- 

The  Magnolia 103 

Biographical  Notes 105 

Index  of  Titles Ill 

Index  of  Authors 112 


SOUTHERN  POEMS 

BACON'S   EPITAPH 

Unknown 

In  1814  the  Massachusetts  Historical  Society  published  the  Bur- 
well  Papers,  so  called  because  of  the  family  in  whose  possession  these 
papers  had  long  remained.  At  the  close  of  Bacon's  Proceedings  in 
these  papers  stands  the  following  remarkable  poem,  entitled  Bacon's 
Epitaph,  Made  by  his  Man,  and  presumably  written  soon  after  Bacon's 
death  in  1676. 

Death,  why  so  cruel  ?  What !  No  other  way 

To  manifest  thy  spleen,  but  thus  to  slay 

Our  hopes  of  safety,  liberty,  our  all, 

Which  through  thy  tyranny  with  him *  must  fall 

To  its  late  chaos  ?...... 

.     Now  we  must  complain,  5 

Since  thou,  in  him,  hast  more  than  thousand  slain, 
Whose  lives  and  safeties  did  so  much  depend 
On  him  their  life,  with  him  their  lives  must  end. 

Who   now   must   heal   those   wounds,  or   stop   that 

blood 
The  Heathen  made  and  drew  into  a  flood  ?  10 

Who  is  't  must  plead   our  cause?    Nor  trump  nor 

drum 

1  Nathaniel  Bacon,  born  in  Suffolk,  England,  in  1647  ;  estab- 
lished a  plantation  on  James  River,  Virginia  ;  without  a  commis- 
sion marched  against  the  Indians  in  1676  ;  declared  a  rebel  ; 
died  on  October  1,  1676. 


2  SOUTHERN  POEMS 

Nor  Deputations  ;  these,  alas  !  are  dumb 

And  cannot  speak.  Our  Arms  (though  ne'er  so  strong) 

Will  want  the  aid  of  his  commanding  tongue 

Which  conquer'd  more  than  Caesar.  He  o'erthrew  15 

Only  the  outward  frame  ;  this  could  subdue 

The  rugged  works  of  nature.  Souls  replete 

With  dull  chill  cold,  he  'd  animate  with  heat 

Drawn  forth  of  reason's  limbic.  In  a  word, 

Mars  and  Minerva  both  in  him  concurred  20 

For  art,  for  arms,  whose  pen  and  sword  alike, 

As  Cato's  did,  may  admiration  strike 

Into  his  foes ;  while  they  confess  withal 

It  was  their  guilt  styl'd  him  a  criminal. 

Only  this  difference  does  from  truth  proceed ;  25 

They  in  the  guilt,  he  in  the  name  must  bleed. 

While  none  shall  dare  his  obsequies  to  sing 

In  deserv'd  measures ;  until  time  shall  bring 

Truth  crown'd  with  freedom,  and  from  danger  free 

To  sound  his  praises  to  posterity.  30 

Here  let  him  rest ;  while  we  this  truth  report 
He  's  gone  from  thence  unto  a  higher  Court 
To  plead  his  cause,  where  he  by  this  doth  know 
Whether  to  Caesar  he  was  friend  or  foe. 


KESIGNATION:  OK,  DAYS  OF  MY  YOUTH 

St.  George  Tucker 

Days  of  my  youth,  ye  have  glided  away ; 
Hairs  of  my  youth,  ye  are  frosted  and  gray ; 
Eyes  of  my  youth,  your  keen  sight  is  no  more ; 
Cheeks  of  my  youth,  ye  are  furrowed  all  o'er ; 
Strength  of  my  youth,  all  your  vigor  is  gone  ;  5 

Thoughts  of  my  youth,  your  gay  visions  are  flown. 


FRANCIS  SCOTT  KEY  3 

Days  of  my  youth,  I  wish  not  your  recall ; 
Hairs  of  my  youth,  I  'm  content  ye  shall  fall ; 
Eyes  of  my  youth,  you  much  evil  have  seen ; 
Cheeks  of  my  youth,  bathed  in  tears  have  you  been  ;  10 
Thoughts  of  my  youth,  you  have  led  me  astray ; 
Strength  of  my  youth,  why  lament  your  decay  ? 

Days  of  my  age,  ye  will  shortly  be  past ; 

Pains  of  my  age,  yet  a  while  ye  can  last ; 

Joys  of  my  age,  in  true  wisdom  delight ;  15 

Eyes  of  my  age,  be  religion  your  light ; 

Thoughts  of  my  age,  dread  ye  not  the  cold  sod; 

Hopes  of  my  age,  be  ye  fixed  on  your  God. 


THE  STAE-SPANGLED  BANNER 

Francis  Scott  Key 

Written  during  the  bombardment  of  Fort  McHenry,  in  Baltimore, 
in  1814. 

O !  say,  can  you  see,  by  the  dawn's  early  light, 

What  so  proudly  we  hailed  at  the  twilight's  last 

gleaming  — 
Whose  broad  stripes  and  bright  stars,  through  the 

clouds  of  the  fight, 
O'er  the  ramparts  we  watched  were  so  gallantly 

streaming  ? 
And  the  rockets'   red  glare,  the  bombs  bursting  in 

air,  5 

Gave  proof  through  the  night  that  our  flag  was  still 

there ; 
O  !  say,  does  that  star-spangled  banner  yet  wave 
O'er  the  land  of  the  free  and  the  home  of  the  brave  ? 


4  SOUTHERN  POEMS 

On  that  shore  dimly  seen  through  the  mists  of  the 
deep, 
Where  the  foe's  haughty  host  in  dread  silence  re- 
poses, 10 
What   is  that  which   the    breeze,   o'er  the  towering 
steep, 
As  it  fitfully  blows,  now  conceals,  now  discloses  ? 
Now  it  catches  the  gleam  of  the  morning's  first  beam, 
In  full  glory  reflected  now  shines  on  the  stream ; 
'T  is  the  star-spangled  banner ;  O  long  may  it  wave     15 
O'er  the  land  of  the  free  and  the  home  of  the  brave ! 

And  where  is  that  band  who  so  vauntingly  swore 

That  the  havoc  of  war  and  the  battle's  confusion 
A  home  and  a  country  should  leave  us  no  more  ? 
Their  blood  has  washed  out  their  foul  footstep's  pol- 
lution. 20 
No  refuge  could  save  the  hireling  and  slave 
From  the  terror  of  flight,  or  the  gloom  of  the  grave  ; 
And  the  star-spangled  banner  in  triumph  doth  wave 
O'er  the  land  of  the  free  and  the  home  of  the  brave. 

O !  thus  be  it  ever,  when  freemen  shall  stand  25 

Between  their  loved  homes  and  the  war's  desolation ! 
Blessed  with   victory  and   peace,  may  the   Heav'n- 
rescued  land 
Praise  the  Power  that  hath  made  and  preserved  us 
a  nation  ! 
Then  conquer  we  must,  when  our  cause  it  is  just, 
And  this  be  our  motto  —  "  In  God  is  our  trust !  "     30 
And  the  star-spangled  banner  in  triumph  shall  wave 
O'er  the  land  of  the  free  and  the  home  of  the  brave. 


RICHARD  HENRY  WILDE  5 

MY   LIFE   IS   LIKE   THE   SUMMER   ROSE 

Richard  Henry  Wilde 

Originally  entitled  Stanzas,  and  inscribed  to  Ellen  Adair,  daughter 
of  General  John  Adair  of  Kentucky. 

My  life  is  like  the  summer  rose, 

That  opens  to  the  morning  sky, 
But,  ere  the  shades  of  evening  close, 

Is  scattered  on  the  ground  —  to  die ! 
Yet  on  the  rose's  humble  bed  5 

The  sweetest  dews  of  night  are  shed, 
As  if  she  wept  the  waste  to  see  — 
But  none  shall  weep  a  tear  for  me ! 

My  life  is  like  the  autumn  leaf 

That  trembles  in  the  moon's  pale  ray :       10 
Its  hold  is  frail  —  its  date  is  brief, 

Restless  —  and  soon  to  pass  away ! 
Yet,  ere  that  leaf  shall  fall  and  fade, 
The  parent  tree  will  mourn  its  shade, 
The  winds  bewail  the  leafless  tree  —  15 

But  none  shall  breathe  a  sigh  for  me  ! 

My  life  is  like  the  prints  which  feet 

Have  left  on  Tampa's  desert  strand; 
Soon  as  the  rising  tide  shall  beat, 

All  trace  will  vanish  from  the  sand ;  20 

Yet,  as  if  grieving  to  efface 
All  vestige  of  the  human  race, 
On  that  lone  shore  loud  moans  the  sea  — 
But  none,  alas  !  shall  mourn  for  me  ! 


SOUTHERN  POEMS 


I  SIGH  FOE  THE  LAND  OF  THE  CYPRESS 
AND  PINE 

Samuel  Henry  Dickson 

I  sigh  for  the  land  of  the  cypress  and  pine, 

Where  the  jessamine  blooms,  and  the  gay  wood- 
bine ; 

Where  the  moss  droops  low  from  the  green  oak 
tree, — 

Oh,  that  sun-bright  land  is  the  land  for  me ! 

The  snowy  flower  of  the  orange  there  5 

Sheds  its  sweet  fragrance  through  the  air ; 
And  the  Indian  rose  delights  to  twine 
Its  branches  with  the  laughing  vine. 

There  the  deer  leaps  light  through  the  open  glade, 
Or  hides  him  far  in  the  forest  shade,  10 

When  the  woods  resound  in  the  dewy  morn 
With  the  clang  of  the  merry  hunter's  horn. 

There  the  hummingbird,  of  rainbow  plume, 
Hangs  over  the  scarlet  creeper's  bloom  ; 
While  'midst  the  leaves  his  varying  dyes  15 

Sparkle  like  half -seen  fairy  eyes. 

There  the  echoes  ring  through  the  livelong  day 
With  the  mock-bird's  changeful  roundelay ; 
And  at  night,  when  the  scene  is  calm  and  still, 
With  the  moan  of  the  plaintive  whip-poor-will.         20 


EDWARD  COOTE   PINKNEY  7 

Oh !  I  sigh  for  the  land  of  the  cypress  and  pine, 
Of  the  laurel,  the  rose,  and  the  gay  woodbine , 
Where  the  long,  gray  moss  decks  the  rugged  oak 

tree, — 
That  sun-bright  land  is  the  land  for  me. 


A  HEALTH1 

Edward  Coote  Pinkney 

I  FILL  this  cup  to  one  made  up  of  loveliness  alone, 
A  woman  of  her  gentle  sex  the  seeming  paragon ; 
To  whom  the  better  elements  and  kindly  stars  have 

given 
A  form  so  fair  that,  like  the  air,  't  is  less  of  earth 

than  heaven. 

Her  every  tone  is  music's  own,  like  those  of  morning 

birds,  5 

And  something  more  than  melody  dwells  ever  in  her 

words ; 
The  coinage  of  her  heart  are  they,  and  from  her  lips 

each  flows 
As  one  may  see  the  burdened  bee  forth  issue  from 

the  rose. 

Affections  are  as  thoughts  to  her,  the  measures  of  her 

hours ; 
Her  feelings  have  the  fragrancy,  the  freshness  of 

young  flowers ;  10 

1  According  to  Holliday  (Three  Centuries  of  Southern  Poetry, 
Nashville,  1908),  this  poem  was  written  in  honor  of  Miss  Rebecca 
Somerville,  of  Baltimore. 


8  SOUTHERN  POEMS 

And  lovely  passions,  changing  oft,  so  fill  her  she 

appears 
The  image  of  themselves  by  turns  —  the  idol  of  past 

years ! 

Of  her  bright  face  one  glance  will  trace  a  picture  on 

the  brain, 
And  of  her  voice  in  echoing  hearts  a  sound  must  long 

remain ; 
But  memory,   such   as  mine  of   her,   so  very  much 

endears,  15 

When  death  is  nigh  my  latest  sigh  will  not  be  life's, 

but  hers. 

I  fill  this  cup  to  one  made  up  of  loveliness  alone, 
A  woman  of  her  gentle  sex  the  seeming  paragon  — 
Her  health !  and  would  on  earth  there  stood  some 
more  of  such  a  frame,  19 

That  life  might  be  all  poetry,  and  weariness  a  name. 


THE   SWAMP  FOX 
William  Gilmore  Simms 

We  follow  where  the  Swamp  Fox x  guides, 

His  friends  and  merry  men  are  we  ; 
And  when  the  troop  of  Tarleton  rides, 

We  burrow  in  the  cypress  tree. 
The  turfy  hammock  is  our  bed, 

Our  home  is  in  the  red  deer's  den, 
Our  roof,  the  tree-top  overhead, 

For  we  are  wild  and  hunted  men. 

1  General  Francis  Marion  of  Revolutionary  fame. 


WILLIAM  GELMORE  SIMMS  9 

We  fly  by  day  and  shun  its  light, 

But  prompt  to  strike  the  sudden  blow,  10 

We  mount  and  start  with  early  night, 

And  through  the  forest  track  our  foe, 
And  soon  he  hears  our  chargers  leap, 

The  flashing  saber  blinds  his  eyes, 
And  ere  he  drives  away  his  sleep,  15 

And  rushes  from  his  camp,  he  dies. 

Free  bridle-bit,  good  gallant  steed, 

That  will  not  ask  a  kind  caress 
To  swim  the  Santee  at  our  need, 

When  on  his  heels  the  foemen  press  —  20 

The  true  heart  and  the  ready  hand, 

The  spirit  stubborn  to  be  free, 
The  twisted  bore,  the  smiting  brand  — 

And  we  are  Marion's  men,  you  see. 

Now  light  the  fire  and  cook  the  meal,  25 

The  last,  perhaps,  that  we  shall  taste ; 
I  hear  the  Swamp  Fox  round  us  steal, 

And  that 's  a  sign  we  move  in  haste. 
He  whistles  to  the  scouts,  and  hark  ! 

You  hear  his  order  calm  and  low.  30 

Come,  wave  your  torch  across  the  dark, 

And  let  us  see  the  boys  that  go. 

We  may  not  see  their  forms  again, 

God  help  'em,  should  they  find  the  strife ! 

For  they  are  strong  and  fearless  men,  3f 

And  make  no  coward  terms  for  life  ; 

They  '11  fight  as  long  as  Marion  bids, 
And  when  he  speaks  the  word  to  shy, 


10  SOUTHERN   POEMS 

Then,  not  till  then,  they  turn  their  steeds, 

Through  thickening  shade  and  swamp  to  fly.  40 

Now  stir  the  fire  and  lie  at  ease  — 

The  scouts  are  gone,  and  on  the  brush 
I  see  the  Colonel  bend  his  knees, 

To  take  his  slumbers  too.  But  hush ! 
He  's  praying,  comrades  ;  't  is  not  strange  ;       45 

The  man  that 's  fighting  day  by  day 
May  well,  when  night  comes,  take  a  change, 

And  down  upon  his  knees  to  pray. 

Break  up  that  hoecake,  boys,  and  hand 

The  sly  and  silent  jug  that 's  there  ;  50 

I  love  not  it  should  idly  stand 

When  Marion's  men  have  need  of  cheer. 
'T  is  seldom  that  our  luck  affords 

A  stuff  like  this  we  just  have  quaffed, 
And  dry  potatoes  on  our  boards  t  55 

May  always  call  for  such  a  draught. 

Now  pile  the  brush  and  roll  the  log ; 

Hard  pillow,  but  a  soldier's  head 
That 's  half  the  time  in  brake  and  bog 

Must  never  think  of  softer  bed.  60 

The  owl  is  hooting  to  the  night, 

The  cooter  crawling  o'er  the  bank, 
And  in  that  pond  the  flashing  light 

Tells  where  the  alligator  sank. 

What !   't  is  the  signal !  start  so  soon,  65 

And  through  the  Santee  swamp  so  deep, 

Without  the  aid  of  friendly  moon, 

And  we,  Heaven  help  us !  half  asleep ! 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE  11 

But  courage,  comrades  !  Marion  leads  ; 

The  Swamp  Fox  takes  us  out  to-night ;  70 

So  clear  your  swords  and  spur  your  steeds, 

There  's  goodly  chance,  I  think,  of  fight. 

We  follow  where  the  Swamp  Fox  guides, 

We  leave  the  swamp  and  cypress  tree, 
Our  spurs  are  in  our  coursers'  sides,  75 

And  ready  for  the  strife  are  we. 
The  Tory  camp  is  now  in  sight, 

And  there  he  cowers  within  his  den ; 
He  hears  our  shouts,  he  dreads  the  fight, 

He  fears,  and  flies  from  Marion's  men.  80 

ISRAFEL 

Edgar  Allan  Poe 

"  And  the  angel,  Israfel,  whose  heartstrings  are  a  lute,  and  who 
has  the  sweetest  voice  of  all  God's  creatures."  —  The  Koran. 

In  Heaven  a  spirit  doth  dwell 
Whose  heartstrings  are  a  lute ; 

None  sing  so  wildly  well 

As  the  angel  Israfel, 

And  the  giddy  stars  (so  legends  tell),  5 

Ceasing  their  hymns,  attend  the  spell 
Of  his  voice,  all  mute. 

Tottering  above 

In  her  highest  noon, 

The  enamored  moon  10 

Blushes  with  love, 

While,  to  listen,  the  red  levin 

(With  the  rapid  Pleiads,  even, 


12  SOUTHERN  POEMS 

Which  were  seven) 

Pauses  in  Heaven.  15 


And  they  say  (the  starry  choir 

And  the  other  listening  things) 
That  Israfeli's  fire 
Is  owing  to  that  lyre 

By  which  he  sits  and  sings,  —  20 

The  trembling  living  wire 

Of  those  unusual  strings. 

But  the  skies  that  angel  trod, 

Where  deep  thoughts  are  a  duty, 
Where  Love 's  a  grown-up  God,  25 

Where  the  Houri  glances  are 

Imbued  with  all  the  beauty 

Which  we  worship  in  a  star. 

Therefore  thou  art  not  wrong, 

Israfeli,  who  despisest  30 

An  unimpassioned  song ; 
To  thee  the  laurels  belong, 

Best  bard,  because  the  wisest : 
Merrily  live,  and  long  ! 

The  ecstasies  above  35 

With  thy  burning  measures  suit : 

Thy  grief,  thy  joy,  thy  hate,  thy  love, 
With  the  fervor  of  thy  lute  ; 
Well  may  the  stars  be  mute ! 

Yes,  Heaven  is  thine  ;  but  this  40 

Is  a  world  of  sweets  and  sours ; 
Our  flowers  are  merely  —  flowers, 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE  13 

And  the  shadow  of  thy  perfect  bliss 
Is  the  sunshine  of  ours. 


•If  I  could  dwell  45 

Where  Israfel 

Hath  dwelt,  and  he  where  I, 
He  might  not  sing  so  wildly  well 

A  mortal  melody, 
While  a  bolder  note  than  this  might  swell     50 

From  my  lyre  within  the  sky. 


ANNABEL  LEE 


Edgar  Allan  Poe 

This  poem  appeared  in  the  New  York  Tribune,  October  9, 1849,  two 
days  after  Poe's  death.    Presumably  the  poem  refers  to  Mrs.  Poe.1 

It  was  many  and  many  a  year  ago, 

In  a  kingdom  by  the  sea, 
That  a  maiden  there  lived  whom  you  may  know 

By  the  name  of  Annabel  Lee ; 
And  this  maiden  she  lived  with  no  other  thought      5 

Than  to  love  and  be  loved  by  me. 

/  was  a  child  and  she  was  a  child, 

In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea ; 
But  we  loved  with  a  love  that  was  more  than  love, 

I  and  my  Annabel  Lee ;  10 

With  a  love  that  the  winged  seraphs  of  heaven 

Coveted  her  and  me. 

1  For  another  interpretation  see  vol.  vn,  p.  218,  of  the  Vir- 
ginia edition  of  Poe's  Works,  edited  by  James  A.  Harrison, 
New  York,  1902. 


14  SOUTHERN  POEMS 

And  this  was  the  reason  that,  long  ago, 

In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea, 
A  wind  blew  out  of  a  cloud,  chilling  15 

My  beautiful  Annabel  Lee  ; 
So  that  her  highborn  kinsmen  came 

And  bore  her  away  from  me, 
To  shut  her  up  in  a  sepulcher 

In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea.  20 

The  angels,  not  half  so  happy  in  heaven, 

Went  envying  her  and  me  ; 
Yes  !  that  was  the  reason  (as  all  men  know, 

In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea) 
That  the  wind  came  out  of  the  cloud  by  night,         25 

Chilling  and  killing  my  Annabel  Lee. 

But  our  love  it  was  stronger  by  far  than  the  love 

Of  those  who  were  older  than  we, 

Of  many  far  wiser  than  we ; 
And  neither  the  angels  in  heaven  above,  30 

Nor  the  demons  down  under  the  sea, 
Can  ever  dissever  my  soul  from  the  soul 

Of  the  beautiful  Annabel  Lee  : 

For   the   moon   never  beams,  without   bringing  me 
dreams 

Of  the  beautiful  Annabel  Lee  ;  35 

And  the  stars  never  rise,  but  I  feel  the  bright  eyes 

Of  the  beautiful  Annabel  Lee : 
And  so,  all  the  night-tide,  I  lie 'down  by  the  side 
Of  my  darling  —  my  darling  —  my  life  and  my  bride, 

In  her  sepulcher  there  by  the  sea,  40 

In  her  tomb  by  the  sounding  sea. 


EDGAR  ALLAN   POE  15 

THE   RAVEN 

Edgar  Allan  Poe 
First  published  in  The  Evening  Mirror  on  January  29,  1845. 

Once  upon  a  midnight  dreary,  while  I  pondered,  weak 

and  weary, 
Over  many  a  quaint  and  curious  volume  of  forgotten 

lore, — 
While  I  nodded,  nearly  napping,  suddenly  there  came 

a  tapping, 
As  of  some  one  gently  rapping,  rapping  at  my  chamber 

door. 
"'Tis  some  visitor,"  I   muttered,    "tapping   at  my 

chamber  door :  5 

Only  this  and  nothing  more." 

Ah,  distinctly  I  remember  it  was  in  the  bleak  De- 
cember ; 

And  each  separate  dying  ember  wrought  its  ghost  upon 
the  floor. 

Eagerly  I  wished  the  morrow ;  —  vainly  I  had  sought 
to  borrow 

From  my  books  surcease  of  sorrow  —  sorrow  for  the 
lost  Lenore,  10 

For  the  rare  and  radiant  maiden  whom   the  angels 
name  Lenore : 

Nameless  here  for  evermore. 

And  the  silken,  sad,  uncertain  rustling  of  each  purple 

curtain 
Thrilled  me  —  filled  me  with  fantastic  terrors  never 

felt  before  ; 


16  SOUTHERN  POEMS 

So  that  now,  to  still  the  beating  of  my  heart,  I  stood 
repeating :  15 

"  'T  is  some  visitor  entreating  entrance  at  my  chamber 
door, 

Some  late  visitor  entreating  entrance  at  my  chamber 
door: 

This  it  is  and  nothing  more." 

Presently  my  soul  grew  stronger ;  hesitating  then  no 

longer, 
"  Sir,"  said  I,  "  or  Madam,  truly  your  forgiveness  I 

implore ;  20 

But  the  fact  is  I  was  napping,  and  so  gently  you  came 

rapping, 
And   so  faintly  you  came  tapping,  tapping   at   my 

chamber  door, 
That  I  scarce  was  sure  I  heard  you  "  —  here  I  opened 

wide  the  door :  — 

Darkness  there  and  nothing  more. 

Deep  into  that  darkness  peering,  long  I  stood  there 

wondering,  fearing,  25 

Doubting,  dreaming  dreams  no  mortals  ever  dared  to 

dream  before ; 
But  the  silence  was  unbroken,  and  the  stillness  gave 

no  token, 
And  the  only  word  there  spoken  was  the  whispered 

word,  "  Lenore  ?  " 
This  I  whispered,  and  an  echo  murmured  back  the 

word,  "  Lenore  ! "" 

Merely  this  and  nothing  more.  30 

Back  into  the  chamber  turning,  all  my  soul  within  me 
burning, 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE  17 

Soon  again  I  heard  a  tapping  somewhat  louder  than 
before. 

"  Surely,"  said  I,  "  surely  that  is  something  at  my 
window  lattice ; 

Let  me  see,  then,  what  thereat  is,  and  this  mystery 
explore  ; 

Let  my  heart  be  still  a  moment  and  this  mystery  ex- 
plore :  35 
'T  is  the  wind  and  nothing  more." 

Open  here  I  flung  the  shutter,  when,  with  many  a  flirt 

and  flutter, 
In  there  stepped  a  stately  Raven  of  the  saintly  days 

of  yore. 
Not   the   least   obeisance   made    he ;    not    a    minute 

stopped  or  stayed  he  ; 
But,  with  mien  of  lord  or  lady,  perched  above  my 

chamber  door,  40 

Perched  upon  a  bust  of  Pallas  just  above  my  chamber 

door : 

Perched,  and  sat,  and  nothing  more. 

Then  this  ebony  bird  beguiling  my  sad  fancy  into 
smiling 

By  the  grave  and  stern  decorum  of  the  countenance  it 
wore,  — 

"  Though  thy  crest  be  shorn  and  shaven,  thou,"  I  said, 
"  art  sure  no  craven,  45 

Ghastly  grim  and  ancient  Raven  wandering  from  the 
Nightly  shore  : 

Tell  me  what  thy  lordly  name  is  on  the  Night's  Plu- 
tonian shore !  " 

Quoth  the  Raven,  "  Nevermore." 


18  SOUTHERN  POEMS 

Much  I  marveled  this  ungainly  fowl  to  hear  discourse 

so  plainly, 
Though  his  answer  little  meaning  —  little  relevancy 

bore ;  50 

For  we  cannot  help  agreeing  that  no  living  human 

being 
Ever  yet   was  blessed  with    seeing   bird  above    his 

chamber  door, 
Bird  or  beast  upon  the  sculptured  bust   above  his 

chamber  door, 

With  such  name  as  "Nevermore." 

But  the   Raven,  sitting  lonely  on   the  placid  bust, 

spoke  only  55 

That  one  word,  as  if  his  soul  in  that  one  word  he  did 

outpour. 
Nothing  further  then  he  uttered,  not  a  feather  then  he 

fluttered, 
Till  I  scarcely  more  than  muttered,  "  Other  friends 

have  flown  before  : 
On  the  morrow  he  will  leave  me,  as  my  Hopes  have 

flown  before." 

Then  the  bird  said,  "  Nevermore."      60 

Startled  at  the  stillness  broken  by  reply  so  aptly 

spoken, 
"  Doubtless,"  said  I,  "  what  it  utters  is  its  only  stock 

and  store, 
Caught  from  some  unhappy  master  whom  unmerciful 

Disaster 
Followed  fast  and  followed  faster  till  his  songs  one 

burden  bore : 
Till  the  dirges  of  his  Hope  that  melancholy  burden 

bore  65 

Of  '  Never  —  nevermore.'  " 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE  19 

But    the    Raven    still    beguiling  all    my  fancy   into 
smiling, 

Straight  I  wheeled  a  cushioned  seat  in  front  of  bird 
and  bust  and  door  ; 

Then,  upon  the  velvet  sinking,  I  betook  myself  to 
linking 

Fancy  into  fancy,  thinking  what  this  ominous  bird  of 
yore,  70 

What  this  grim,  ungainly,  ghastly,  gaunt,  and  omi- 
nous bird  of  yore 

Meant  in  croaking  "  Nevermore." 

Thus  I  sat  engaged  in  guessing,  but  no  syllable  ex- 
pressing 

To  the  fowl  whose  fiery  eyes  now  burned  into  my 
bosom's  core  ; 

This  and  more  I  sat  divining,  with  my  head  at  ease 
reclining  75 

On  the  cushion's  velvet  lining   that   the  lamplight 
gloated  o'er, 

But  whose  velvet  violet  lining  with  the  lamplight 
gloating  o'er 

She  shall  press,  ah,  nevermore ! 

Then,  methought,  the  air  grew  denser,  perfumed  from 

an  unseen  censer 
Swung  by  seraphim  whose  footfalls  tinkled  on  the 

tufted  floor.  80 

"  Wretch,"  I  cried,   "  thy  God  hath  lent  thee  —  by 

these  angels  he  hath  sent  thee 
Respite — respite  and  nepenthe  from  thy  memories 

of  Lenore ; 
Quaff,  oh  quaff  this  kind  nepenthe,  and  forget  this 

lost  Lenore ! " 

Quoth  the  Raven,  "  Nevermore." 


20  SOUTHERN  POEMS 

"  Prophet !  "  said  I,  "  thing-  of  evil !  prophet  still,  if 
bird  or  devil !  85 

Whether  Tempter  sent,  or  whether  tempest  tossed 
thee  here  ashore, 

Desolate  yet  all  undaunted,  on  this  desert  land  en- 
chanted — 

On  this  home  by  Horror  haunted  —  tell  me  truly,  I 
implore  : 

Is  there —  is  there  balm  in  Gilead?  —  tell  me  —  tell 
me,  I  implore  !  " 

Quoth  the  Raven,  "  Nevermore."        90 

"  Prophet !  "  said  I,  "  thing  of  evil !  prophet  still,  if 

bird  or  devil ! 
By  that  Heaven  that  bends  above  us,  by  that  God  we 

both  adore, 
Tell  this  soul  with  sorrow  laden  if,  within  the  distant 

Aidenn, 
It  shall  clasp  a  sainted  maiden  whom    the   angels 

name  Lenore : 
Clasp  a  rare  and   radiant  maiden  whom   the  angels 

name  Lenore  !  "  95 

Quoth  the  Raven,  "Nevermore." 

"  Be  that  word  our  sign  of  parting,  bird  or  fiend  !  " 
I  shrieked,  upstarting  : 

"  Get  thee  back  into  the  tempest  and  the  Night's  Plu- 
tonian shore  ! 

Leave  no  black  plume  as  a  token  of  that  lie  thy  soul 
hath  spoken  ! 

Leave  my  loneliness  unbroken !  quit  the  bust  above 
my  door!  100 

Take  thy  beak  from  out  my  heart,  and  take  thy  form 
from  off  my  door !  " 

Quoth  the  Raven,  "  Nevermore." 


ALBERT   PLKE  21 

And  the  Raven,  never  flitting,  still  is  sitting,  still  is 

sitting 
On  the  pallid  bust  of  Pallas  just  above  my  chamber 

door ; 
And  his  eyes  have  all  the  seeming  of  a  demon's  that 

is  dreaming,  105 

And    the    lamplight   o'er  him  streaming  throws  his 

shadow  on  the  floor  : 
And  my  soul  from  out  that  shadow  that  lies  floating 

on  the  floor 

Shall  be  lifted  —  nevermore  ! 


ODE  TO  THE  MOCKING-BIRD 

Albert   Pike 

Thou  glorious  mocker  of  the  world !  I  hear 
Thy  many  voices  ringing  through  the  glooms 

Of  these  green  solitudes  ;  and  all  the  clear, 

Bright  joyance  of  their  song  enthralls  the  ear, 

And  floods  the  heart.  Over  the  sphered  tombs       5 

Of  vanished  nations  rolls  thy  music  tide  ; 
No  light  from  History's  starlit  page  illumes 

The  memory  of  these  nations ;  they  have  died : 

None  care  for  them  but  thou  ;  and  thou  mayst  sing 
O'er  me  perhaps,  as  now  thy  clear  notes  ring        10 

Over  their  bones  by  whom  thou  once  wast  deified. 

Glad  scorner  of  all  cities  !  Thou  dost  leave 
The  world's  mad  turmoil  and  incessant  din, 

Where  none  in  other's  honesty  believe, 

Where  the  old  sigh,  the  young  turn  gray  and  grieve, 
Where  misery  gnaws  the  maiden's  heart  within : 

Thou  fleest  far  into  the  dark  green  woods, 


22  SOUTHERN  POEMS 

Where,  with  thy  flood  of  music,  thou  canst  win 
Their  heart  to  harmony,  and  where  intrudes 

No  discord  on  thy  melodies.    O,  where,  20 

Among  the  sweet  musicians  of  the  air, 
Is  one  so  dear  as  thou  to  these  old  solitudes  ? 

Ha !  what  a  burst  was  that !    The  .ZEolian  strain 
Goes  floating  through  the  tangled  passages 

Of  the  still  woods,  and  now  it  comes  again,  25 

A  multitudinous  melody,  —  like  a  rain 
Of  glassy  music  under  echoing  trees, 

Close  by  a  ringing  lake.  It  wraps  the  soul 
With  a  bright  harmony  of  happiness, 

Even  as  a  gem  is  wrapped  when  round  it  roll  30 

Thin  waves  of  crimson  flame  ;  till  we  become, 
With  the  excess  of  perfect  pleasure,  dumb, 

And  pant  like  a  swift  runner  clinging  to  the  goal. 

I  cannot  love  the  man  who  doth  not  love, 

As  men  love  light,  the  song  of  happy  birds;  35 

For  the  first  visions  that  my  boy  heart  wove 

To  fill  its  sleep  with,  were  that  I  did  rove 

Through  the  fresh  woods,  what  time  the  snowy  herds 

Of  morning  clouds  shrunk  from  the  advancing  sun 
Into  the  depths  of  Heaven's  blue  heart,  as  words   40 

From  the  Poet's  lips  float  gently,  one  by  one, 
And  vanish  in  the  human  heart ;  and  then 
I  reveled  in  such  songs,  and  sorrowed  when, 

With    noon-heat   overwrought,    the    music-gush   was 
done. 

I  would,  sweet  bird,  that  I  might  live  with  thee,      45 

Amid  the  eloquent  grandeur  of  these  shades, 
Alone  witli  nature  —  but  it  may  not  be  ; 


ALEXANDER   BEAUFORT   MEEK  23 

I  have  to  struggle  with  the  stormy  sea 

Of  human  life  until  existence  fades 
Into  death's  darkness.  Thou  wilt  sing  and  soar         50 

Through    the    thick  woods  and  shadow-checkered 
glades, 
While  pain  and  sorrow  cast  no  dimness  o'er 

The  brilliance  of  thy  heart ;  but  I  must  wear, 

As  now,  my  garments  of  regret  and  care, 
As  penitents  of  old  their  galling  sackcloth  wore.       55 

Yet  why  complain  ?  What  though  fond  hopes  deferred 
Have  overshadowed  Life's  green  paths  with  gloom  ? 

Content's  soft  music  is  not  all  unheard ; 

There  is  a  voice  sweeter  than  thine,  sweet  bird, 

To  welcome  me  within  my  humble  home  :  60 

There  is  an  eye,  with  love's  devotion  bright, 
The  darkness  of  existence  to  illume. 

Then    why  complain  ?    When   Death    shall   cast   his 
blight 
Over  the  spirit,  my  cold  bones  shall  rest 
Beneath  these  trees ;  and  from  thy  swelling  breast,  65 

Over  them  pour  thy  song,  like  a  rich  flood  of  light. 

LAND  OF  THE   SOUTH 

Alexander  Beaufort  Meek 

These  stanzas  were  introduced  in  an  address  entitled  "  The  Day  of 
Freedom,"  delivered  in  1838. 

I 

Land  of  the  South  !  —  imperial  land !  — 

How  proud  thy  mountains  rise  ! 
How  sweet  thy  scenes  on  every  hand ! 

How  fair  thy  covering  skies ! 


24  SOUTHERN  POEMS 

But  not  for  this  — oh,  not  for  these —  5 

I  love  thy  fields  to  roam ; 
Thou  hast  a  dearer  spell  to  me,  — 

Thou  art  my  native  home  ! 

II 
Thy  rivers  roll  their  liquid  wealth, 

Unequaled  to  the  sea  ;  10 

Thy  hills  and  valleys  bloom  with  health, 

And  green  with  verdure  be ! 
But  not  for  thy  proud  ocean  streams, 

Not  for  thy  azure  dome, 
Sweet,  sunny  South,  I  cling  to  thee,  —  15 

Thou  art  my  native  home  ! 

Ill 
I  've  stood  beneath  Italia's  clime, 

Beloved  of  tale  and  song, 
On  Helvyn's1  hills,  proud  and  sublime, 

Where  nature's  wonders  throng ;  20 

By  Tempe's  classic  sunlit  streams, 

Where  Gods,  of  old,  did  roam,  — 
But  ne'er  have  found  so  fair  a  land 

As  thou,  my  native  home ! 

IV 

And  thou  hast  prouder  glories,  too,  25 

Than  nature  ever  gave  ; 
Peace  sheds  o'er  thee  her  genial  dew, 

And  Freedom's  pinions  wave  ; 
Fair  Science  flings  her  pearls  around, 

Religion  lifts  her  dome,  —  30 

These,  these  endear  thee  to  my  heart, 

My  own,  loved  native  home! 

1  Helvyn,  poetical  name  for  Switzerland. 


PHILIP  PENDLETON   COOKE  25 

V 

And  "  Heaven's  best  gift  to  man  "  is  thine  — 

God  bless  thy  rosy  girls  ! 
Like  sylvan  flowers  they  sweetly  shine,  35 

Their  hearts  are  pure  as  pearls  ! 
And  grace  and  goodness  circle  them, 

Where'er  their  footsteps  roam  ; 
How  can  I  then,  whilst  loving  them, 

Not  love  my  native  home?  40 

VI 
Land  of  the  South  !  —  imperial  land  !  — 

Then  here  's  a  health  to  thee : 
Long  as  thy  mountain  barriers  stand, 

May'st  thou  be  blest  and  free ! 
May  dark  dissension's  banner  ne'er  45 

Wave  o'er  thy  fertile  loam  ! 
But  should  it  come,  there  's  one  will  die 

To  save  his  native  home ! 

FLORENCE  VANE 

Philip  Pendleton  Cooke 

Published  in  The  Gentleman's  Magazine  in  1839,  -while  Poe  was  its 
editor.  It  was  not  personal  in  its  address. 

I  loved  thee  long  and  dearly, 

Florence  Vane ; 
My  life's  bright  dream  and  early 

Hath  come  again ; 
I  renew  in  my  fond  vision  5 

My  heart's  dear  pain, 
My  hope  and  thy  derision, 

Florence  Vane ! 


SOUTHERN  POEMS 

The  ruin,  lone  and  hoary, 

The  ruin  old,  10 

Where  thou  didst  hark  my  story, 

At  even  told,  — 
That  spot  —  the  hues  Elysian 

Of  sky  and  plain  — 
I  treasure  in  my  vision,  15 

Florence  Vane. 

Thou  wast  lovelier  than  the  roses 

In  their  prime  ; 
Thy  voice  excelled  the  closes 

Of  sweetest  rhyme  ;  20 

Thy  heart  was  as  a  river 

Without  a  main. 
Would  I  had  loved  thee  never, 

Florence  Vane ! 

But,  fairest,  coldest  wonder  25 

Thy  glorious  clay 
Lieth  the  green  sod  under  — 

Alas  the  day ! 
And  it  boots  not  to  remember 

Thy  disdain  —  30 

To  quicken  love's  pale  ember, 

Florence  Vane ! 

The  lilies  of  the  valley 

By  young  graves  weep, 
The  pansies  love  to  dally  35 

Where  maidens  sleep : 
May  their  bloom,  in  beauty  vying, 

Never  wane 
Where  thine  earthly  part  is  lying, 

Florence  Vane  !  40 


THEODORE  O'HARA  27 

THE  BIVOUAC  OF  THE   DEAD 

Theodore  O'Hara 

Read  by  its  author  when  his  comrades  who  had  fallen  in  Mexico  were 
buried  in  Frankfort,  Kentucky,  in  1847. 

The  muffled  drum's  sad  roll  has  beat 

The  soldier's  last  tattoo  ; 
No  more  on  life's  parade  shall  meet 

That  brave  and  fallen  few. 
On  Fame's  eternal  camping-ground  5 

Their  silent  tents  are  spread, 
And  Glory  guards,  with  solemn  round, 

The  bivouac  of  the  dead. 

No  rumor  of  the  foe's  advance 

Now  swells  upon  the  wind ;  10 

No  troubled  thought  at  midnight  haunts 

Of  loved  ones  left  behind  ; 
No  vision  of  the  morrow's  strife 

The  warrior's  dream  alarms  ; 
No  braying  horn  nor  screaming  fife  15 

At  dawn  shall  call  to  arms. 

Their  shivered  swords  are  red  with  rust, 

Their  plumed  heads  are  bowed  ; 
Their  haughty  banner,  trailed  in  dust, 

Is  now  their  martial  shroud.  20 

And  plenteous  funeral  tears  have  washed 

The  red  stains  from  each  brow, 
And  the  proud  forms,  by  battle  gashed, 

Are  free  from  anguish  now. 

The  neighing  troop,  the  flashing  blade,         25 
The  bugle's  stirring  blast, 


28  SOUTHERN  POEMS 

The  charge,  the  dreadful  cannonade, 

The  din  and  shout,  are  past ; 
Nor  war's  wild  note  nor  glory's  peal 

Shall  thrill  with  fierce  delight  30 

Those  breasts  that  never  more  may  feel 

The  rapture  of  the  fight. 

Like  the  fierce  northern  hurricane 

That  sweeps  this  great  plateau, 
Flushed  with  triumph  yet  to  gain,  35 

Came  down  the  serried  foe.1 
Who  heard  the  thunder  of  the  fray 

Break  o'er  the  field  beneath, 
Knew  well  the  watchword  of  that  day 

Was  "  Victory  or  death."  40 

Long  had  the  doubtful  conflict  raged 

O'er  all  that  stricken  plain, 
For  never  fiercer  fight  had  waged 

The  vengeful  blood  of  Spain  ; 
And  still  the  storm  of  battle  blew,  45 

Still  swelled  the  gory  tide; 
Not  long,  our  stout  old  chieftain  2  knew, 

Such  odds  his  strength  could  bide. 

'T  was  in  that  hour  his  stern  command 

Called  to  a  martyr's  grave  50 

The  flower  of  his  beloved  land 

The  nation's  flag  to  save. 
By  rivers  of  their  fathers'  gore 

His  firstborn  laurels  grew, 
And  well  he  deemed  the  sons  would  pour        55 

Their  lives  for  glory  too. 

1  General  Santa  Anna  commanded  21,000  Mexicans. 

2  Zackary  Taylor. 


1  u 


Ground." 


THEODORE  O'HARA  29 

Full  many  a  norther's  breath  has  swept 

O'er  Angostura's  plain  — 
And  long  the  pitying  sky  has  wept 

Above  its  moldering  slain.  60 

The  raven's  scream,  or  eagle's  flight, 

Or  shepherd's  pensive  lay, 
Alone  awakes  each  sullen  height 

That  frowned  o'er  that  dread  fray. 

Sons  of  the  Dark  and  Bloody  Ground,1  65 

Ye  must  not  slumber  there, 
Where  stranger  steps  and  tongues  resound 

Along  the  heedless  air. 
Your  own  proud  land's  heroic  soil 

Shall  be  your  fitter  grave  ;  70 

She  claims  from  War  his  richest  spoil  — 

The  ashes  of  her  brave. 

Thus  'neath  their  parent  turf  they  rest, 

Far  from  the  gory  field  ; 
Borne  to  a  Spartan  mother's  breast  75 

On  many  a  bloody  shield ; 
The  sunlight  of  their  native  sky 

Smiles  sadly  on  them  here, 
And  kindred  eyes  and  hearts  watch  by 

The  heroes'  sepulcher.  80 

Rest  on,  embalmed  and  sainted  dead, 

Dear  as  the  blood  ye  gave ; 
No  impious  footstep  here  shall  tread 

The  herbage  of  your  grave  ; 
Nor  shall  your  glory  be  forgot  85 

While  Fame  her  record  keeps, 
Kentucky  "  is  an  Indian  word  meaning  "  Dark  and  Bloody 


30  SOUTHERN  POEMS 

Or  Honor  points  the  hallowed  spot 
Where  Valor  proudly  sleeps. 

Yon  marble  minstrel's  voiceless  stone 

In  deathless  song  shall  tell,  90 

"When  many  a  vanished  age  hath  flown, 

The  story  how  ye  fell ; 
Nor  wreck,  nor  change,  nor  winter's  blight, 

Nor  Time's  remorseless  doom, 
Shall  dim  one  ray  of  glory's  light  95 

That  gilds  your  glorious  tomb. 

THE  LONG  AGO1 

Philo  Henderson 

Oh  !  a  wonderful  stream  is  the  river  of  Time, 

As  it  runs  through  the  realm  of  tears, 
With  a  faultless  rhythm,  and  musical  rhyme, 
And  a  broader  sweep,  and  a  surge  sublime, 

And  blends  with  the  ocean  of  years !  5 

How  the  winters  are  drifting  like  flakes  of  snow, 

And  summers  like  buds  between, 
And  the  ears  in  the  sheaf,  —  so  they  come  and  they 

go 
On  the  river's  breast  with  its  ebb  and  flow, 

As  it  glides  in  the  shadow  and  sheen  !  10 

There 's  a  magical  Isle  in  the  river  of  Time 

Where  the  softest  of  airs  are  playing ; 
There 's  a  cloudless  sky,  and  a  tropical  clime, 

1  This  poem  is  of  disputed  authorship,  but  is  more  commonly 
attributed  to  Benjamin  F.  Taylor  of  Colgate  University. 


PHILO   HENDERSON  31 

And  a  song  as  sweet  as  a  vesper  chime, 

And  the  Junes  with  the  roses  are  staying.  15 

And  the  name  of  this  Isle  is  the  Long  Ago, 

And  we  bury  our  treasures  there,  — 
There  are  brows  of  beauty,  and  bosoms  of  snow, 
There  are  heaps  of  dust,  —  but  we  loved  them  so ! 

There  are  trinkets,  and  tresses  of  hair.  20 

There  are  fragments  of  song  that  nobody  sings, 

And  a  part  of  an  infant's  prayer ; 
There  's  a  lute  unswept,  and  a  harp  without  strings, 
There  are  broken  vows  and  pieces  of  rings, 

And  the  garments  she  used  to  wear.  25 

There  are  hands  that  are  waved  when  the  fairy  shore 

By  the  mirage  is  lifted  in  air, 
And  we  sometimes  hear,  through  the  turbulent  roar, 
Sweet  voices  heard  in  the  days  gone  before, 

When  the  wind  down  the  river  is  fair.  30 

Oh !  remembered  for  aye  be  that  blessed  Isle, 

All  the  day  of  life  till  the  night ; 
When  the  evening  comes  with  its  beautiful  smile, 
And  our  eyes  are  closing  to  slumber  awhile, 

May  that  "  Greenwood  "  of  soul  be  in  sight !         35 


32  SOUTHERN  POEMS 

LITTLE   GIFFEN1 

Francis  Orray  Ticknor 

A  true  story  of  a  boy  'whom  Dr.  Ticknor  nursed  back  to  life  at 
Torch  Hill,  Georgia. 

Out  of  the  focal  and  foremost  fire, 

Out  of  the  hospital  walls  as  dire, 

Smitten  of  grapeshot  and  gangrene, 

Eighteenth  battle  and  he  sixteen  — 

Specter  such  as  you  seldom  see,  5 

Little  Giffen  of  Tennessee. 

"  Take  him  and  welcome,"  the  surgeon  said ; 

"  Not  the  doctor  can  help  the  dead  !  " 
So  we  took  him  and  brought  him  where 
The  balm  was  sweet  in  our  summer  air ;  10 

And  we  laid  him  down  on  a  wholesome  bed ; 
Utter  Lazarus,  heel  to  head  ! 

And  we  watched  the  war  with  abated  breath, 

Skeleton  boy  against  skeleton  death  ! 

Months  of  torture,  how  many  such  !  15 

Weary  weeks  of  the  stick  and  crutch,  — 

And  still  a  glint  in  the  steel-blue  eye 

Told  of  a  spirit  that  would  n't  die, 

And  did  n't !     Nay  !  more  !  in  death's  despite 
The  crippled  skeleton  learned  to  write  —  20 

"  Dear  mother  !  "  at  first,  of  course,  and  then 
"  Dear  Captain  !  "  inquiring  about  the  men. 

1  From  Poems  by  Francis  Orray  Ticknor,  collected  and  edited 
by  Michell  Cutliff  Ticknor  and  issued  by  the  Neale  Publishing 
Company,  New  York. 


JOHN  REUBEN  THOMPSON  33 

Captain's  answer  :  "  Of  eighty  and  five, 
Giffen  and  I  are  left  alive." 

"  Johnston 1  pressed  at  the  front,"  they  say ;  —       25 

Little  Giffen  was  up  and  away ! 

A  tear,  his  first,  as  he  bade  good-by, 

Dimmed  the  glint  of  his  steel-blue  eye. 
"  I  '11  write,  if  spared  !  "  There  was  news  of  fight, 

But  none  of  Giffen  —  he  did  not  write  !  30 

I  sometimes  fancy  that  were  I  King 

Of  the  courtly  Knights  of  Arthur's  ring, 

With  the  voice  of  the  minstrel  in  mine  ear 

And  the  tender  legend  that  trembles  here, 

I  'd  give  the  best  on  his  bended  knee  —  35 

The  whitest  soul  of  my  chivalry  — 

For  Little  Giffen  of  Tennessee. 


MUSIC   IN  CAMP 

John  Reuben  Thompson 

The  contending  armies  were  encamped  on  opposite  sides  of  the 
Rappahannock  River,   near  Fredericksburg,  during  the  winter  of 

1862-63. 

Two  armies  covered  hill  and  plain, 

Where  Rappahannock's  waters 
Ran  deeply  crimsoned  with  the  stain 

Of  battle's  recent  slaughters. 

The  summer  clouds  lay  pitched  like  tents  5 

In  meads  of  heavenly  azure ; 

1  General  Joseph  E.  Johnston,  once  commander  of  the  Army 
of  Northern  Virginia. 


34  SOUTHERN  POEMS 

And  each  dread  gun  of  the  elements 
Slept  in  its  embrasure. 

The  breeze  so  softly  blew  it  made 

No  forest  leaf  to  quiver,  10 

And  the  smoke  of  the  random  cannonade 

Rolled  slowly  from  the  river. 

And  now,  where  circling  hills  looked  down 

With  cannon  grimly  planted, 
O'er  listless  camp  and  silent  town  15 

The  golden  sunset  slanted. 

When  on  the  fervid  air  there  came 
A  strain  —  now  rich,  now  tender  ; 

The  music  seemed  itself  aflame 

With  day's  departing  splendor.  20 

A  Federal  band,  which,  eve  and  morn,1 
Played  measures  brave  and  nimble, 

Had  just  struck  up,  with  flute  and  horn 
And  lively  clash  of  cymbal. 

Down  flocked  the  soldiers  to  the  banks,  25 

Till,  margined  by  its  pebbles, 
One  wooded  shore  was  blue  with  "  Yanks," 

And  one  was  gray  with  "Rebels." 

Then  all  was  still,  and  then  the  band, 

With  movement  light  and  tricksy,  30 

Made  stream  and  forest,  hill  and  strand, 
Reverberate  with  "Dixie." 

The  conscious  stream  with  burnished  glow 
Went  proudly  o'er  its  pebbles, 


JOHN   REUBEN   THOMPSON  35 

But  thrilled  throughout  its  deepest  flow  35 

With  yelling  of  the  Rebels. 

Again  a  pause,  and  then  again 

The  trumpets  pealed  sonorous, 
And  "  Yankee  Doodle  "  was  the  strain 

To  which  the  shore  gave  chorus.  40 

The  laughing  ripple  shoreward  flew, 

To  kiss  the  shining  pebbles ; 
Loud  shrieked  the  swarming  Boys  in  Blue 

Defiance  to  the  Rebels. 

And  yet  once  more  the  bugle  sang  45 

Above  the  stormy  riot ; 
No  shout  upon  the  evening  rang  — 

There  reigned  a  holy  quiet. 

The  sad,  slow  stream  its  noiseless  flood 

Poured  over  the  glistening  pebbles ;  50 

All  silent  now  the  Yankees  stood, 
And  silent  stood  the  Rebels. 

No  unresponsive  soul  had  heard 

That  plaintive  note's  appealing, 
So  deeply  "  Home,  Sweet  Home  "  had  stirred  55 

The  hidden  founts  of  feeling. 

Or  Blue,  or  Gray,  the  soldier  sees, 

As  by  the  wand  of  fairy, 
The  cottage  'neath  the  live  oak  trees, 

The  cabin  by  the  prairie.  60 

Or  cold,  or  warm,  his  native  skies 
Bend  in  their  beauty  o'er  him  ; 


36  SOUTHERN  POEMS 

Seen  through  the  tear  mist  in  his  eyes, 
His  loved  ones  stand  before  him. 


As  fades  the  iris  after  rain  65 

In  April's  tearful  weather, 
The  vision  vanished,  as  the  strain 

And  daylight  died  together. 

But  memory,  waked  by  music's  art, 

Expressed  in  simplest  numbers,  70 

Subdued  the  sternest  Yankee's  heart, 
Made  light  the  Rebel's  slumbers. 

And  fair  the  form  of  music  shines, 

That  bright  celestial  creature, 
Who  still,  'mid  war's  embattled  lines,  75 

Gave  this  one  touch  of  Nature. 


CARCASSONNE  * 
John  Reuben  Thompson 

"  I  'm  growing  old,  I  've  sixty  years  ; 

I  've  labored  all  my  life  in  vain : 
In  all  that  time  of  hopes  and  fears 

I  've  failed  my  dearest  wish  to  gain. 
I  see  full  well  that  here  below  5 

Bliss  unalloyed  there  is  for  none. 
My  prayer  will  ne'er  fulfilment  know 

I  never  have  seen  Carcassonne, 

I  never  have  seen  Carcassonne ! 

1  No  finer  translation  of  Gustav  Nadaud's  famous  poem  is 
known. 


JOHN   REUBEN  THOMPSON  37 

'*  You  see  the  city  from  the  hill,  10 

It  lies  beyond  the  mountains  blue, 
And  yet  to  reach  it  one  must  still 

Five  long  and  weary  leagues  pursue, 
And  to  return  as  many  more ! 

Ah  !  had  the  vintage  plenteous  grown  !  15 

The  grape  withheld  its  yellow  store! 

I  shall  not  look  on  Carcassonne, 

I  shall  not  look  on  Carcassonne ! 

"  They  tell  me  every  day  is  there 

Not  more  or  less  than  Sunday  gay :  20 

In  shining  robes  and  garments  fair 

The  people  walk  upon  their  way. 
One  gazes  there  on  castle  walls 

As  grand  as  those  of  Babylon, 
A  bishop  and  two  generals  !  25 

I  do  not  know  fair  Carcassonne, 

I  do  not  know  fair  Carcassonne ! 

"  The  vicar 's  right ;  he  says  that  we 
Are  ever  wayward,  weak  and  blind, 

He  tells  us  in  his  homily  30 

Ambition  ruins  all  mankind  ; 

Yet  could  I  there  two  days  have  spent 
While  still  the  autumn  sweetly  shone, 

Ah  me  !  I  might  have  died  content 

When  I  had  looked  on  Carcassonne,  35 

When  I  had  looked  on  Carcassonne ! 

"  Thy  pardon,  Father,  I  beseech, 
In  this  my  prayer  if  I  append  : 
One  something  sees  beyond  his  reach 

From  childhood  to  his  journey's  end.  40 


SOUTHERN  POEMS 

My  wife,  our  little  boy  Aignon, 
Have  traveled  even  to  Narbonne  ; 

My  grandchild  has  seen  Perpignon, 
And  I  have  not  seen  Carcassonne, 
And  I  have  not  seen  Carcassonne !  "  45 

So  crooned  one  day,  close  by  Limoux, 

A  peasant  double-bent  with  age  ; 
"  Rise  up,  my  friend,"  said  I ;  "  with  you 

I  '11  go  upon  this  pilgrimage." 
We  left  next  morning  his  abode,  50 

But  (Heaven  forgive  him)  halfway  on, 
The  old  man  died  upon  the  road ; 

He  never  gazed  on  Carcassonne, 

Each  mortal  has  his  Carcassonne ! 


THE  WINDOW-PANES  AT  BRANDON* 

John  Reuben  Thompson 

As  within  the  old  mansion  the  holiday  throng 

Reassembles  in  beauty  and  grace, 
And  some  eye  looking  out  of  the  window  by  chance, 

These  memorial  records  may  trace  — 
How  the  past,  like  a  swift-coming  haze  from  the  sea, 

In  an  instant  surrounds  us  once  more,  6 

While  the  shadowy  figures  of  those  we  have  loved, 

All  distinctly  are  seen  on  the  shore ! 

Through  the  vista  of  years,  stretching  dimly  away, 
We  but  look,  and  a  vision  behold  ...  10 

1  Upon  the  window-panes  at  Brandon,  a  well-known  mansion 
on  the  James  River  in  Virginia,  names  of  many  guests  were  cut 
with  a  diamond. 


JOHN   REUBEN  THOMPSON  39 

Like  some  magical  picture  the  sunset  reveals 

With  its  colors  of  crimson  and  gold, 
All  suffused  with  the   glow  of  the  hearth's  ruddy 
blaze, 

From  beneath  the  gay  "  mistletoe  bough," 
There  are  faces  that  break  into  smiles  as  divinely     15 

As  any  that  beam  on  us  now. 

While  the  Old  Year  departing  strides  ghost-like  along 

O'er  the  hills  that  are  dark  with  the  storm, 
To  the  New  the  brave  beaker  is  filled  to  the  brim, 

And  the  play  of  affection  is  warm  :  20 

Look  once  more  ...  as  the  garlanded  Spring  reap- 
pears, 

In  her  footsteps  we  welcome  a  train 
Of  fair  women,  whose  eyes  are  as  bright  as  the  gem 

That  has  cut  their  dear  names  on  the  pane. 

From  the  canvas  of  Vandyke  or  Kneller  that  hangs   25 

On  the  old-fashioned  wainscoted  wall, 
Stately  ladies,  the  favored  of  poets,  look  down 

On  the  guests  and  the  revel  and  all ; 
But  their  beauty,  though  wedded  to  eloquent  verse, 

And  though  rendered  immortal  by  Art,  30 

Yet  outshines  not  the  beauty  that,  breathing  below, 

In  a  moment  takes  captive  the  heart. 

Many  winters  have  since  frosted  over  these  panes 

With  the  tracery  work  of  the  rime  ; 
Many   Aprils  have  brought  back  the  birds  to  the 
lawn  35 

From  some  far-away  tropical  clime  : 
But  the  guests  of  the  season,  alas  !  where  are  they  ? 

Some,  the  shores  of  the  stranger  have  trod, 


40  SOUTHERN  POEMS 

And  some  names  have  been  long  ago  carved  on  the 
stone, 
Where  they  sweetly  rest  under  the  sod.  40 

How  uncertain  the  record  !  the  hand  of  a  child 

In  its  innocent  sport,  unawares, 
May,  at  any  time,  lucklessly  shatter  the  pane, 

And  thus  cancel  the  story  it  bears  ; 
Still  a  portion,  at  least,  shall  uninjured  remain        45 

Unto  trustier  tablets  consigned, 
The  fond  names  that  survive  in  the  memory  of  friends 

Who  yet  linger  a  season  behind. 

Recollect,  O  young  soul,  with  ambition  inspired ! 

Let  the  moral  be  read  as  we  pass ;  50 

Recollect,  the  illusory  tablets  of  fame 

Have  been  ever  as  brittle  as  glass ; 
Oh  !  be  not  content  with  the  name  thus  inscribed, 

For  as  well  may  you  trace  it  in  dust ; 
But  resolve  to  record  it,  where  long  it  shall  stand,  55 

In  the  hearts  of  the  good  and  the  just. 


BEFORE  DEATH1 

Margaret  Junkin  Preston 

I 

How  much  would  I  care  for  it,  could  I  know 
That  when  I  am  under  the  grass  or  snow, 
The  ravelled  garment  of  life's  brief  day 
Folded,  and  quietly  laid  away  ; 

1  The  three  poem*  by  Margaret  Junkin   Preston  are  printed  by 
courtesy  of  Little,  Brown  and  Company. 


MARGARET  JUNKIN  PRESTON  41 

The  spirit  let  loose  from  mortal  bars,  5 

And  somewhere  away  among  the  stars  : 

How  much  would  you  think  it  would  matter  then 

What  praise  was  lavished  upon  me,  when, 

Whatever  might  be  its  stint  or  store, 

It  neither  could  help  nor  harm  me  more  ?  10 

II 
If  midst  of  my  toil  they  had  but  thought 
To  stretch  a  finger,  I  would  have  caught 
Gladly  such  aid,  to  bear  me  through 
Some  bitter  duty  I  had  to  do : 

And  when  it  was  done,  had  I  but  heard  15 

One  breath  of  applause,  one  cheering  word, 
One  cry  of  "  Courage !  "  amid  the  strife, 
So  weighted  for  me,  with  death  or  life, 
How  would  it  have  nerved  my  soul  to  strain 
Through  the  whirl  of  the  coming  surge  again !     20 

III 
What  use  for  the  rope,  if  it  be  not  flung 
Till  the  swimmer's  grasp  to  the  rock  has  clung? 
What  help  in  a  comrade's  bugle-blast 
When  the  peril  of  Alpine  heights  is  past  ? 
What  need  that  the  spurring  psean  roll  25 

When  the  runner  is  safe  beyond  the  goal? 
What  worth  is  eulogy's  blandest  breath 
When  whispered  in  ears  that  are  hushed  in  death  ? 
No  !  no !  if  you  have  but  a  word  of  cheer, 
Speak  it,  while  I  am  alive  to  hear !  30 


42  SOUTHERN  POEMS 

THE   SHADE   OF  THE   TREES 

Margaret  Junkin  Preston 

"  Let  us  pass  over  the  river  and  rest  under  the  shade  of  the  trees  " 
were  the  last  words  of  Stonewall  Jackson  in  1863.  Mrs.  Preston  was 
General  Jackson's  sister-in-law. 

What  are  the  thoughts  that  are  stirring  his  breast  ? 

What  is  the  mystical  vision  he  sees  ? 
"  Let  us  pass  over  the  river  and  rest 

Under  the  shade  of  the  trees." 

Has  he  grown  sick  of  his  toils  and  his  tasks  ?  5 

Sighs  the  worn  spirit  for  respite  or  ease? 

Is  it  a  moment's  cool  halt  that  he  asks 
Under  the  shade  of  the  trees  ? 

Is  it  the  gurgle  of  waters  whose  flow 

Ofttime  has  come  to  him  borne  on  the  breeze,  10 
Memory  listens  to,  lapsing  so  low, 

Under  the  shade  of  the  trees  ? 

Nay  —  though  the  rasp  of  the  flesh  was  so  sore, 
Faith,  that  had  yearnings  far  keener  than  these, 

Saw  the  soft  sheen  of  the  Thitherward  Shore,  15 

Under  the  shade  of  the  trees  ;  — 

Caught  the  high  psalms  of  ecstatic  delight, 

Heard  the  harps  harping  like  soundings  of  seas, 

Watched  earth's  assoiled  ones  walking  in  white 

Under  the  shade  of  the  trees.  20 

O,  was  it  strange  he  should  pine  for  release, 

Touched  to  the  soul  with  such  transports  as  these, 


MAKGARET  JUNKIN  PRESTON  43 

He  who  so  needed  the  balsam  of  peace, 
Under  the  shade  of  the  trees  ? 


Yes,  it  was  noblest  for  him  —  it  was  best  25 

(Questioning  naught  of  our  Father's  decrees) 

There  to  pass  over  the  river  and  rest 
Under  the  shade  of  the  trees ! 


GONE  FORWARD 

Margaret  Junkin  Preston 

Among  the  broken  sentences  uttered  by  General  Lee  on  his  death- 
bed (1870)  was  this  :  "  Let  the  tent  be  struck,  the  General  has  gone 
forward." 

Yes,  "Let  the  tent  be  struck" :  victorious  morning 
Through  every  crevice  flashes  in  a  day 

Magnificent  beyond  all  earth's  adorning : 

The  night  is  over ;  wherefore  should  he  stay  ? 
And  wherefore  should  our  voices  choke  to  say,      5 
"  The  General  has  gone  forward  "  ? 

Life's  foughten  field  not  once  beheld  surrender ; 

But  with  superb  endurance,  present,  past, 
Our  pure  commander,  lofty,  simple,  tender, 

Through  good,  through  ill,  held  his  high  purpose 
fast,  10 

Wearing  his  armor  spotless,  —  till  at  last 
Death  gave  the  final  "  Forward  !  " 

All  hearts  grew  sudden  palsied  :  Yet  what  said  he 
Thus  summoned  ?  —  "  Let  the  tent  he  struck  I  "  — 
For  when 
Did  call  of  duty  fail  to  find  him  ready  15 


44  SOUTHERN  POEMS 

Nobly  to  do  his  work  in  sight  of  men, 
For  God's  and  for  his  country's  sake  —  and  then 
To  watch,  wait,  or  go  forward  ? 

We  will  not  weep,  —  we  dare  not!  Such  a  story 
As  his  large  life  writes  on  the  century's  years,      20 

Should  crowd  our  bosoms  with  a  flush  of  glory, 
That  manhood's  type,  supremest  that  appears 
To-day,  Tie  shows  the  ages.  Nay,  no  tears 
Because  he  has  gone  forward  ! 

Gone   forward? — whither?    Where  the  marshalled 

legions,  25 

Christ's    well-worn    soldiers,  from    their   conflicts 

cease,  — 

Where   Faith's   true   Red-Cross  Knights   repose   in 

regions 

Thick-studded    with    the    calm,    white    tents    of 

peace,  — 
Thither,  right  joyful  to  accept  release, 

The  General  has  gone  forward !  30 


WASHINGTON  — PATER  PATRLE1 

James  Barron  Hope 

Achilles  came  from  Homer's  Jove-like  brain, 
Pavilioned  'mid  his  ships  where  Thetis  trod ; 
But  he  whose  image  dominates  this  plain 
Came  from  the  hand  of  God ! 

1  This  is  an  excerpt  from  "  Arms  and  the  Man,"  a  poem  recited 
on  the  One  Hundredth  Anniversary  of  the  surrender  of  Lord 
Cornwallis  at  Yorktown,  Virginia.  This  and  the  poem  following 
are  printed  by  courtesy  of  Mrs.  Janie  Hope  Marr. 


JAMES   BARRON   HOPE  45 

Yet  of  his  life,  which  shall  all  time  adorn,  5 

I  dare  not  sing  ;  to  try  the  theme  would  be 
To  drink  as  't  were  that  Scandinavian  Horn 
Whose  tip  was  in  the  Sea. 

I  bow  my  head  and  go  upon  my  ways, 

Who  tells  that  story  can  but  gild  the  gold  —       10 
Could  I  pile  Alps  on  Apennines  of  praise 
The  tale  would  not  be  told. 

Not  his  the  blade  which  lyric  fables  say 

Cleft  Pyrenees  from  ridge  to  nether  bed, 
But  his  the  sword  which  cleared  the  Sacred  Way       15 
For  Freedom's  feet  to  tread. 

Not  Caesar's  genius  nor  Napoleon's  skill 

Gave  him  proud  mast'ry  o'er  the  trembling  earth ; 
But  great  in  honesty,  and  sense  and  will  — 

He  was  the  "  man  of  worth."  20 

He  knew  not  North,  nor  South,  nor  West,  nor  East : 

Childless  himself,  Father  of  States  he  stood, 
Strong  and  sagacious  as  a  Knight  turned  Priest, 
,  And  vowed  to  deeds  of  good. 

Compared  with  all  Earth's  heroes  I  may  say  25 

He  was,  with  even  half  his  virtues  hid, 
Greater  in  what  his  hand  refrained  than  they 
Were  great  in  what  they  did. 

And  thus  his  image  dominates  all  time, 

Uplifted  like  the  everlasting  dome  30 

Which  rises  in  a  miracle  sublime 
Above  eternal  Rome. 


46  SOUTHERN  POEMS 

On  Rome's  once  blooming  plain  where'er  we  stray 

That  dome  majestic  rises  on  the  view, 
Its  Cross  a-glow  with  every  wandering  ray  35 

That  shines  along  the  Blue. 

So  his  vast  image  shadows  all  the  lands, 

So  holds  forever  Man's  adoring  eye, 
And  o'er  the  Union  which  he  left  it  stands 

Our  Cross  against  the  sky !  40 

OUR  ANGLO-SAXON  TONGUE 

James  Barron  Hope 

Good  is  the  Saxon  speech  !  clear,  short,  and  strong, 

Its  clean-cut  words,  fit  both  for  prayer  and  song ; 

Good  is  this  tongue  for  all  the  needs  of  life ; 

Good  for  sweet  words  with  friend,  or  child,  or  wife. 

Seax  —  short  sword  —  and  like  a  sword  its  sway       5 
Hews  out  a  path  'mid  all  the  forms  of  speech, 
For  in  itself  it  hath  the  power  to  teach 

Itself,  while  many  tongues  slow  fade  away. 

'T  is  good  for  laws  ;  for  vows  of  youth  and  maid ; 
Good  for  the  preacher  ;  or  shrewd  folk  in  trade ;      10 
Good  for  sea-calls  when  loud  the  rush  of  spray ; 
Good  for  war-cries  where  men  meet  hilt  to  hilt, 
And  man's  best  blood  like  new- trod  wine  is  spilt, — 
Good  for  all  times,  and  good  for  what  thou  wilt ! 


HENRY   TIMROD  47 

A  COMMON  THOUGHT1 

Henry  Timrod 

Somewhere  on  this  earthly  planet 

In  the  dust  of  flowers  to  be, 
In  the  dewdrop,  in  the  sunshine, 

Sleeps  a  solemn  day  for  me. 

At  this  wakeful  hour  of  midnight  5 

I  behold  it  dawn  in  mist, 
And  I  hear  a  sound  of  sobbing 

Through  the  darkness  —  hist !  oh,  hist  I 

In  a  dim  and  murky  chamber, 

I  am  breathing  life  away ;  10 

Some  one  draws  a  curtain  softly, 

And  I  watch  the  broadening  day. 

As  it  purples. in  the  zenith, 

As  it  brightens  on  the  lawn, 
There  's  a  hush  of  death  about  me,  15 

And  a  whisper,  "  He  is  gone  !  " 2 

1  The  three  following  poems  by  Henry  Timrod  are  printed  by 
courtesy  of  the  B.  F.  Johnson  Publishing  Company, 

2  A  poem  strangely  prophetic  of  the  manner  of  the  poet's 
death. 


48  SOUTHERN  POEMS 

ODE 

Henry  Timrod 

Sung  on  the  occasion  of  decorating  the  graves  of  the  Confederate  Dead, 
at  Magnolia  Cemetery,  Charleston,  South  Carolina,  1S67. 

I 

Sleep  sweetly  in  your  humble  graves, 

Sleep,  martyrs  of  a  fallen  cause  j 
Though  yet  no  marble  column  craves 

The  pilgrim  here  to  pause. 

II 

In  seeds  of  laurel  in  the  earth  5 

The  blossom  of  your  fame  is  blown, 

And  somewhere,  waiting  for  its  birth, 
The  shaft  is  in  the  stone ! 

Ill 

Meanwhile,  behalf  the  tardy  years 

Which  keep  in  trust  your  storied  tombs,        10 
Behold  !  your  sisters  bring  their  tears, 

And  these  memorial  blooms. 

IV 
Small  tributes  !  but  your  shades  will  smile 

More  proudly  on  these  wreaths  to-day, 
Than  when  some  cannon-moulded  pile  15 

Shall  overlook  this  bay. 

V 

Stoop,  angels,  hither  from  the  skies ! 

There  is  uo  holier  spot  of  ground 
Than  where  defeated  valor  lies, 

By  mourning  beauty  crowned  !  20 


HENRY  TIMROD  49 

THE  COTTON  BOLL 

Henry  Timrod 
This  poem  was  written  during  the  war  between  the  States. 

While  I  recline 

At  ease  beneath 

This  immemorial  pine, 

Small  sphere  ! 

(By  dusky  fingers  brought  this  morning  here  5 

And  shown  with  boastful  smiles), 

I  turn  thy  cloven  sheath, 

Through  which  the  soft  white  fibers  peer, 

That,  with  their  gossamer  bands, 

Unite,  like  love,  the  sea-divided  lands,  10 

And  slowly,  thread  by  thread, 

Draw  forth  the  folded  strands, 

Than  which  the  trembling  line, 

By  whose  frail  help  yon  startled  spider  fled 

Down  the  tall  spear  grass  from  his  swinging  bed,    15 

Is  scarce  more  fine  ; 

And  as  the  tangled  skein 

Unravels  in  my  hands, 

Betwixt  me  and  the  noonday  light, 

A  veil  seems  lifted,  and  for  miles  and  miles  20 

The  landscape  broadens  on  my  sight, 

As,  in  the  little  boll,  there  lurked  a  spell 

Like  that  which,  in  the  ocean  shell, 

With  mystic  sound, 

Breaks  down  the  narrow  walls  that  hem  us  round,  25 

And  turns  some  city  lane 

Into  the  restless  main, 

With  all  his  capes  and  isles ! 


50  SOUTHERN  POEMS 

Yonder  bird, 

Which  floats,  as  if  at  rest,  30 

In  those  blue  tracts  above  the  thunder,  where 

No  vapors  cloud  the  stainless  air, 

And  never  sound  is  heard, 

Unless  at  such  rare  time 

When,  from  the  City  of  the  Blest,  35 

Rings  down  some  golden  chime, 

Sees  not  from  his  high  place 

So  vast  a  cirque  of  summer  space 

As  widens  round  me  in  one  mighty  field, 

Which,  rimmed  by  seas  and  sands,  40 

Doth  hail  its  earliest  daylight  in  the  beams 

Of  gray  Atlantic  dawns  ; 

And,  broad  as  realms  made  up  of  many  lands, 

Is  lost  afar 

Behind  the  crimson  hills  and  purple  lawns  45 

Of  sunset,  among  plains  which  roll  their  streams 

Against  the  Evening  Star ! 

And  lo ! 

To  the  remotest  point  of  sight, 

Although  I  gaze  upon  no  waste  of  snow,  50 

The  endless  field  is  white  ; 

And  the  whole  landscape  glows, 

For  many  a  shining  league  away, 

With  such  accumulated  light 

As  Polar  lands  would  flash  beneath  a  tropic  day !    55 

Nor  lack  there  (for  the  vision  grows, 

And  the  small  charm  within  my  hands  — 

More  potent  even  than  the  fabled  one, 

Which  oped  whatever  golden  mystery 

Lay  hid  in  fairy  wood  or  magic  vale,  60 

The  curious  ointment  of  the  Arabian  tale  — 

Beyond  all  mortal  sense 


HENRY   TIMROD  51 

Doth  stretch  my  sight's  horizon,  and  I  see, 

Beneath  its  simple  influence, 

As  if  with  Uriel's  crown,  65 

I  stood  in  some  great  temple  of  the  Sun, 

And  looked,  as  Uriel,  down  !) 

Nor  lack  there  pastures  rich  and  fields  all  green 

With  all  the  common  gifts  of  God, 

For  temperate  airs  and  torrid  sheen  70 

Weave  Edens  of  the  sod  ; 

Through  lands  which  look  one  sea  of  billowy  gold 

Broad  rivers  wind  their  devious  ways ; 

A  hundred  isles  in  their  embraces  fold 

A  hundred  luminous  bays  ;  75 

And  through  yon  purple  haze 

Vast  mountains  lift  their  plumM  peaks  cloud-crowned ; 

And,  save  where  up  their  sides  the  plowman  creeps, 

An  unhewn  forest  girds  them  grandly  round, 

In  whose  dark  shades  a  future  navy  sleeps !  80 

Ye  Stars,  which,  though  unseen,  yet  with  me  gaze 

Upon  this  loveliest  fragment  of  the  earth ! 

Thou  Sun,  that  kindlest  all  thy  gentlest  rays 

Above  it,  as  to  light  a  favorite  hearth ! 

Ye  Clouds,  that  in  your  temples  in  the  west  85 

See  nothing  brighter  than  its  humblest  flowers  ! 

And  you,  ye  Winds,  that  on  the  ocean's  breast 

Are  kissed  to  coolness  ere  ye  reach  its  bowers ! 

Bear  witness  with  me  in  my  song  of  praise, 

And  tell  the  world  that,  since  the  world  began,        90 

No  fairer  land  hath  fired  a  poet's  lays. 

Or  given  a  home  to  man  ! 

But  these  are  charms  already  widely  blown ! 

His  be  the  meed  whose  pencil's  trace 

Hath  touched  our  very  swamps  with  grace,  95 


52  SOUTHERN  POEMS  ] 

And  round  whose  tuneful  way 

All  Southern  laurels  bloom  ; 

The  Poet  of  "  The  Woodlands,"  1  unto  whom 

Alike  are  known 

The  flute's  low  breathing  and  the  trumpet's  tone,   100 

And  the  soft  west  wind's  sighs ; 

But  who  shall  utter  all  the  debt, 

O  land  wherein  all  powers  are  met 

That  bind  a  people's  heart, 

The  world  doth  owe  thee  at  this  day,  105 

And  which  it  never  can  repay, 

Yet  scarcely  deigns  to  own  ! " 

Where  sleeps  the  poet  who  shall  fitly  sing 

The  source  wherefrom  doth  spring 

That  mighty  commerce  which,  confined  110 

To  the  mean  channels  of  no  selfish  mart, 

Goes  out  to  every  shore 

Of  this  broad  earth,  and  throngs  the  sea  with  ships 

That  bear  no  thunders ;  hushes  hungry  lips 

In  alien  lands  ;  115 

Joins  with  a  delicate  web  remotest  strands  ; 

And  gladdening  rich  and  poor, 

Doth  gild  Parisian  domes, 

Or  feed  the  cottage  smoke  of  English  homes, 

And  only  bounds  its  blessings  by  mankind  ?  120 

In  offices  like  these  thy  mission  lies, 

My  Country  !  and  it  shall  not  end 

As  long  as  rain  shall  fall  and  Heaven  bend 

In  blue  above  thee.  Though  thy  foes  be  hard 

And  cruel  as  their  weapons,  it  shall  guard  125 

Thy  hearthstones  as  a  bulwark  ;  make  thee  great 

In  white  and  bloodless  state  ; 

1  William  Gilmore  Simms.  His  home  near  Charleston,  South 
Carolina,  was  called  "  The  Woodlands." 


HENRY  TIMROD  53 

And  haply,  as  the  years  increase  — 

Still  working  through  its  humbler  reach 

With  that  large  wisdom  which  the  ages  teach  —    130 

Revive  the  half-dead  dream  of  universal  peace ! 

As  men  who  labor  in  that  mine 

Of  Cornwall,  hollowed  out  beneath  the  bed 

Of  ocean,  when  a  storm  rolls  overhead, 

Hear  the  dull  booming  of  the  world  of  brine  135 

Above  them,  and  a  mighty  muffled  roar 

Of  winds  and  waters,  yet  toil  calmly  on, 

And  split  the  rock,  and  pile  the  massive  ore, 

Or  carve  a  niche  or  shape  the  arched  roof; 

So  I,  as  calmly,  weave  my  woof  140 

Of  song,  chanting  the  days  to  come, 

Unsilenced,  though  the  quiet  summer  air 

Stirs  with  the  bruit  of  battles,  and  each  dawn 

Wakes  from  its  starry  silence  to  the  hum 

Of  many  gathering  armies.  Still,  145 

In  that  we  sometimes  hear, 

Upon  the  Northern  winds,  the  voice  of  woe 

Not  wholly  drowned  in  triumph,  though  I  know 

The  end  must  crown  us,  and  a  few  brief  years 

Dry  all  our  tears,  150 

I  may  not  sing  too  gladly.  To  thy  will 

Resigned,  O  Lord !  we  cannot  all  forget 

That  there  is  much  even  Victory  must  regret. 

And,  therefore,  not  too  long 

From  the  great  burthen  of  our  country's  wrong    155 

Delay  our  just  release ! 

And,  if  it  may  be,  save 

These  sacred  fields  of  peace 

From  stain  of  patriot  or  of  hostile  blood ! 

O,  help  us,  Lord !  to  roll  the  crimson  flood  160 

Back  on  its  course,  and  while  our  banners  wing 


54  SOUTHERN  POEMS 

Northward,  strike  with  us  !  till  the  Goth  shall  cling 
To  his  own  blasted  altar  stones,  and  crave 
Mercy  ;  and  we  shall  grant  it,  and  dictate 
The  lenient  future  of  his  fate  165 

There,  where  some  rotting  ships  and  crumbling  quays 
Shall  one  day  mark  the  Port  which  ruled  the  Western 
seas.1 


MY   STUDY2 

Paul  Hamilton  Hayne 

Written  before  his  mansion  in  Charleston,  South  Carolina,  was  de- 
stroyed by  fire.  It  was  published  in  1859. 

This  is  my  world !  within  these  narrow  walls, 

I  own  a  princely  service.  The  hot  care 

And  tumult  of  our  frenzied  life  are  here 

But  as  a  ghost  and  echo ;  what  befalls 

In  the  far  mart  to  me  is  less  than  naught ;  5 

I  walk  the  fields  of  quiet  Arcadies, 

And  wander  by  the  brink  of  hoary  seas, 

Calmed  to  the  tendance  of  untroubled  thought ; 

Or  if  a  livelier  humor  should  enhance 

The  slow-time  pulse,  't  is  not  for  present  strife,         10 

The  sordid  zeal  with  which  our  age  is  rife, 

Its  mammon  conflicts  crowned  by  fraud  or  chance, 

But  gleamings  of  the  lost,  heroic  life, 

Flashed  through  the  gorgeous  vistas  of  romance. 

1  New  York,  considered  by  many  Southerners  at  that  time  as 
an  unjust  competitor  for  trade. 

2  The  poems  by  Paul  Hamilton  Hayne  are  printed  by  courtesy 
of  William  H.  Hayne,  the  son  of  the  author. 


PAUL  HAMILTON   HAYNE  55 

THE  PINE'S  MYSTERY 

Paul  Hamilton  Hayne 

"  Copse  Hill,"  Hayne's  Georgia  home  after  his  home  in  Charleston 
was  sacrificed  to  war,  was  surrounded  by  pines. 

I 

Listen  !  the  sombre  foliage  of  the  Pine, 
A  swart  Gitana1  of  the  woodland  trees, 

Is  answering  what  we  may  but  half  divine 
To  those  soft  whispers  of  the  twilight  breeze ! 

II 

Passion  and  mystery  murmur  through  the  leaves,      5 
Passion  and  mystery,  touched  by  deathless  pain. 

Whose  monotone  of  long,  low  anguish  grieves 
For  something  lost  that  shall  not  live  again ! 

THE   WILL  AND  THE   WING 

Paul  Hamilton  Hayne 

To  have  the  will  to  soar,  but  not  the  wings, 

Eyes  fixed  forever  on  a  starry  height, 
Whence  stately  shapes  of  grand  imaginings 

Flash  down  the  splendors  of  imperial  light ; 

And  yet  to  lack  the  charm  that  makes  them  ours,      5 
The  obedient  vassals  of  that  conquering  spell, 

Whose  omnipresent  and  ethereal  powers 
Encircle  Heaven,  nor  fear  to  enter  Hell ; 

This  is  the  doom  of  Tantalus  —  the  thirst 

For  beauty's  balmy  fount  to  quench  the  fires         10 

1  Gitana,  a  gypsy  dancer. 


56  SOUTHERN  POEMS 

Of  the  wild  passion  that  our  souls  have  nurst 
In  hopeless  promptings  —  unfulfilled  desires. 

Yet  would  I  rather  in  the  outward  state 
Of  Song's  immortal  temple  lay  me  down, 

A  beggar  basking  by  that  radiant  gate,  15 

Than  bend  beneath  the  haughtiest  empire's  crown  I 

For  sometimes,  through  the  bars,  my  ravished  eyes 
Have  caught  brief  glimpses  of  a  life  divine, 

And  seen  afar,  mysterious  rapture  rise 

Beyond  the  veil  that  guards  the  inmost  shrine.     20 

A  DREAM  OF  THE  SOUTH  WINDS 

Paul  Hamilton  Hayne 

O  fresh,  how  fresh  and  fair 
Through  the  crystal  gulfs  of  air, 
The  fairy  South  Wind  floateth  on  her  subtle  wings  of 
balm! 

And  the  green  earth  lapped  in  bliss, 
To  the  magic  of  her  kiss  5 

Seems  yearning  upward  fondly  through  the  golden- 
crested  calm! 

From  the  distant  Tropic  strand, 
Where  the  billows,  bright  and  bland, 
Go  creeping,   curling  round  the   palms  with  sweet, 
faint  under-tune, 

From  its  fields  of  purpling  flowers  10 

Still  wet  with  fragrant  showers, 
The  happy  South  Wind  lingering  sweeps  the  royal 
blooms  of  June. 


PAUL   HAMILTON   HAYNE  57 

All  heavenly  fancies  rise 
On  the  perfume  of  her  sighs, 
Which  steep  the  inmost  spirit  in  a  languor  rare  and 
fine,  15 

And  a  peace  more  pure  than  sleep's 
Unto  dim,  half-conscious  deeps, 
Transports  me,  lulled  and  dreaming,  on  its  twilight 
tides  divine. 

Those  dreams !  ah  me !  the  splendor, 
So  mystical  and  tender,  20 

Wherewith  like  soft  heat-lightnings  they  gird  their 
meaning  round, 

And  those  waters,  calling,  calling, 
With  a  nameless  charm  enthralling, 
Like  the  ghost  of  music  melting  on  a  rainbow  spray 
of  sound ! 

Touch,  touch  me  not,  nor  wake  me,  25 

Lest  grosser  thoughts  o'ertake  me, 
From  earth  receding  faintly  with  her  dreary  din  and 
jars  — 

What  viewless  arms  caress  me  ? 
What  whispered  voices  bless  me, 
With  welcomes  dropping  dewlike  from  the  weird  and 
wondrous  stars?  30 

Alas !  dim,  dim,  and  dimmer 
Grows  the  preternatural  glimmer 
Of  that  trance  the  South  Wind  brought  me  on  her 
subtle  wings  of  balm, 

For  behold  !  its  spirit  flieth, 
And  its  fairy  murmur  dieth,  35 

And  the  silence  closing  round  me  is  a  dull  and  soul- 
less calm ! 


58  SOUTHERN  POEMS 

IN  HARBOR1 
Paul  Hamilton  Hayne 

I  think  it  is  over,  over, 

I  think  it  is  over  at  last, 
Voices  of  foeman  and  lover, 

The  sweet  and  the  bitter  have  passed : 
Life,  like  a  tempest  of  ocean  5 

Hath  outblown  its  ultimate  blast; 
There's  but  a  faint  sobbing  seaward 
While  the  calm  of  the  tide  deepens  leeward, 
And  behold  !  like  the  welcoming  quiver 
Of  heart-pulses  throbbed  thro'  the  river,  10 

Those  lights  in  the  harbor  at  last, 

The  heavenly  harbor  at  last ! 

I  feel  it  is  over,  over! 

For  the  winds  and  the  waters  surcease; 
Ah  !  —  few  were  the  days  of  the  rover  15 

That  smiled  in  the  beauty  of  peace! 
And  distant  and  dim  was  the  omen 

That  hinted  redress  or  release : 
From  the  ravage  of  life,  and  its  riot 
What  marvel  I  yearn  for  the  quiet  20 

Which  bides  in  the  harbor  at  last? 
For  the  lights  with  their  welcoming  quiver 
That  throbbed  through  the  sanctified  river 

Which  girdles  the  harbor  at  last, 

This  heavenly  harbor  at  last?  25 

I  know  it  is  over,  over, 
I  know  it  is  over  at  last ! 

1  Among  bis  very  latest  poems. 


JAMES  RYDER  RANDALL  59 

Down  sail !  the  sheathed  anchor  uncover, 

For  the  stress  of  the  voyage  has  passed : 
Life,  like  a  tempest  of  ocean  30 

Hath  outbreathed  its  ultimate  blast ; 
There 's  but  a  faint  sobbing  seaward  ; 
While  the  calm  of  the  tide  deepens  leeward; 
And  behold  !  like  the  welcoming  quiver 
Of  heart-pulses  throbbed  thro'  the  river,  35 

Those  lights  in  the  harbor  at  last, 

The  heavenly  harbor  at  last ! 


MARYLAND,   MY  MARYLAND1 

James  Ryder  Randall 

Written  in  Louisiana  when  the  author  heard  of  the  clash  between 
the  Massachusetts  troops  and  the  citizens  of  his  native  city,  Baltimore, 
April  19,  1861.    The  poem  was  written  on  April  23,  1861. 

The-  despot's  heel  is  on  thy  shore, 

Maryland ! 
His  torcli  is  at  thy  temple  door, 

Maryland ! 
Avenge  the  patriotic  gore  5 

That  flecked  the  streets  of  Baltimore, 
And  be  the  battle  queen  of  yore, 

Maryland,  my  Maryland ! 

Hark  to  an  exiled  son's  appeal, 

Maryland !  10 

My  Mother  State,  to  thee  I  kneel, 

Maryland ! 

1  For  a  full  account  of  this  poem,  see  Introduction  to  Poems 
of  James  Ryder  Randall,  edited  by  Matthew  Page  Andrews. 


60  SOUTHERN  POEMS 

For  life  and  death,  for  woe  and  weal, 
Thy  peerless  chivalry  reveal, 
And  gird  thy  beauteous  limbs  with  steel,       15 
Maryland,  my  Maryland ! 

Thou  wilt  not  cower  in  the  dust, 

Maryland ! 
Thy  beaming  sword  shall  never  rust, 

Maryland !  20 

Remember  Carroll's 1  sacred  trust, 
Remember  Howard's  2  warlike  thrust, 
And  all  thy  slumberers  with  the  just, 

Maryland,  my  Maryland ! 

Come !  't  is  the  red  dawn  of  the  day,  25 

Maryland ! 
Come  with  thy  panoplied  array, 

Maryland ! 
With  Ringgold's  3  spirit  for  the  fray, 
With  Watson's  4  blood  at  Monterey,  30 

With  fearless  Lowe5  and  dashing  May,6 

Maryland,  my  Maryland ! 

Dear  Mother !  burst  the  tyrant's  chain, 

Maryland ! . 
Virginia  should  not  call  in  vain,  35 

Maryland ! 

1  Carroll  was   a  delegate  to  the  Continental  Congress  that 
framed  the  Declaration  of  Independence. 

2  Howard,  Lieutenant-Colonel  at  the  battle  of  Cowpens. 
8  Ringgold,  killed  at  Palo  Alto  in  the  Mexican  War. 

4  Watson,  Colonel  in  the  Mexican  War  and  killed  at  Monte- 
rey. 

5  Lowe,  a  soldier  in  the  Mexican  War  and  later  Governor  of 
Maryland. 

6  May,  a  leader  at  the  battle  of  Monterey. 


JAMES  RYDER   RANDALL  61 

She  meets  her  eisters  on  the  plain  — 
"  Sic  semper  !  " 1  't  is  the  proud  refrain 
That  baffles  minions  back  amain, 

Maryland !  40 

Arise  in  majesty  again, 

Maryland,  my  Maryland ! 

Come !  for  thy  shield  is  bright  and  strong, 

Maryland ! 
Come !  for  thy  dalliance  does  thee  wrong,      45 

Maryland ! 
Come  to  thine  own  heroic  throng 
Walking  with  Liberty  along, 
And  chant  thy  dauntless  slogan-song, 

Maryland,  my  Maryland !  50 

I  see  the  blush  upon  thy  cheek, 

Maryland ! 
For  thou  wast  ever  bravely  meek, 

Maryland ! 
But  lo !  there  surges  forth  a  shriek,  55 

From  hill  to  hill,  from  creek  to  creek, 
Potomac  calls  to  Chesapeake, 

Maryland,  my  Maryland ! 

Thou  wilt  not  yield  the  Vandal  toll, 

Maryland !  60 

Thou  wilt  not  crook  to  his  control, 

Maryland ! 
Better  the  fire  upon  thee  roll, 
Better  the  shot,  the  blade,  the  bowl, 
Than  crucifixion  of  the  soul,  65 

Maryland,  my  Maryland! 
1  Sic  semper  tyrannis,  Virginia's  motto. 


62  SOUTHERN  POEMS 

I  hear  the  distant  thunder  hum, 

Maryland ! 
The  Old  Line  bugle,  fife,  and  drum, 

Maryland !  70 

She  is  not  dead,  nor  deaf,  nor  dumb ; 
Huzza !  she  spurns  the  Northern  scum ! 
She  breathes  —  she  burns  !  she  '11  come  !  she  '11 


come ! 


Maryland,  my  Maryland 


THE   CONQUERED  BANNER1 

Abram  J.  Ryan  - 

This  tribute  to  the  Confederate  flag  was  published  in  the  Banner 
of  the  South,  March,  1868. 

Furl  that  Banner,  for  'tis  weary ; 
Round  its  staff  't  is  drooping  dreary ; 

Furl  it,  fold  it,  it  is  best ; 
For  there  's  not  a  man  to  wave  it, 
And  there  's  not  a  sword  to  save  it,  5 

And  there  's  not  one  left  to  lave  it 
In  the  blood  which  heroes  gave  it ; 
And  its  foes  now  scorn  and  brave  it ; 

Furl  it,  hide  it  —  let  it  rest ! 

Take  that  Banner  down !  't  is  tattered ;  10 

Broken  is  its  staff  and  shattered; 
And  the  valiant  hosts  are  scattered 

Over  whom  it  floated  high. 
O !  't  is  hard  for  us  to  fold  it ! 
Hard  to  think  there  's  none  to  hold  it ;  15 

1  The  four  following  copyrighted  poems  by  Abram  J.  R}Tan 
are  printed  by  courtesy  of  P.  J.  Kenedy  and  Sons,  New  York. 


ABRAM   J.  RYAN  63 

Hard  that  those  who  once  unrolled  it 
Now  must  furl  it  with  a  sigh. 

Furl  that  Banner !  furl  it  sadly ! 

Once  ten  thousands  hailed  it  gladly, 

And  ten  thousands  wildly,  madly,  20 

Swore  it  should  forever  wave  ; 
Swore  that  foeman's  sword  should  never 
Hearts  like  theirs  entwined  dissever, 
Till  that  flag  should  float  forever 

O'er  their  freedom  or  their  grave !  25 

Furl  it !  for  the  hands  that  grasped  it, 
And  the  hearts  that  fondly  clasped  it, 

Cold  and  dead  are  lying  low ; 
And  that  Banner  —  it  is  trailing  ! 
While  around  it  sounds  the  wailing  30 

Of  its  people  in  their  woe. 

For,  though  conquered,  they  adore  it ! 
Love  the  cold,  dead  hands  that  bore  it ! 
Weep  for  those  who  fell  before  it ! 
Pardon  those  who  trailed  and  tore  it !  35 

But,  O  !  wildly  they  deplore  it, 
Now  who  furl  and  fold  it  so. 

Furl  that  Banner  !  True,  't  is  gory, 

Yet  "t  is  wreathed  around  with  glory, 

And  't  will  live  in  song  and  story,  40 

Though  its  folds  are  in  the  dust! 
For  its  fame  on  brightest  pages, 
Penned  by  poets  and  by  sages, 
Shall  go  sounding  clown  the  ages  — 

Furl  its  folds  though  now  we  must.  45 


64  SOUTHERN  POEMS 

Furl  that  Banner,  softly,  slowly ! 
Treat  it  gently  —  it  is  holy  — 

For  it  droops  above  the  dead. 
Touch  it  not  —  unfold  it  never, 
Let  it  droop  there,  furled  forever,  50 

For  its  people's  hopes  are  fled ! 


THE   SWORD  OF  LEE 

Abram  J.  Ryan 

Fokth  from  its  scabbard,  pure  and  bright, 

Flashed  the  sword  of  Lee  ! 1 
Far  in  front  of  the  deadly  fight, 
High  o'er  the  brave  in  the  cause  of  Right, 
Its  stainless  sheen,  like  a  beacon  light,  5 

Led  us  to  victory. 

Out  of  its  scabbard,  where  full  long 

It  slumbered  peacefully, 
•  Roused  from  its  rest  by  the  battle's  song, 
Shielding  the  feeble,  smiting  the  strong,          10 
Guarding  the  right,  avenging  the  wrong, 

Gleamed  the  sword  of  Lee. 

Forth  from  its  scabbard,  high  in  air 

Beneath  Virginia's  sky  — 
And  they  who  saw  it  gleaming  there,  15 

1  Robert  E.  Lee  was  born  at  "  Stratford,"  Westmoreland 
County,  Virginia,  January  19,  1807;  graduated  from  the  United 
States  Military  Academy,  of  which  he  was  later  (1852)  Super- 
intendent; in  1861  was  offered  command  of  the  Federal  Army, 
but  resigned  his  commission  and  later  joined  the  Confederacy  ; 
surrendered  his  army  on  April  9, 18G5;  died  at  Lexington,  Vir- 
ginia, on  October  12,  1870. 


ABRAM   J.  RYAN  65 

And  knew  who  bore  it,  knelt  to  swear 
That  where  that  sword  led  they  would  dare 
To  follow  —  and  to  die. 

Out  of  its  scabbard !  Never  hand 

Waved  sword  from  stain  as  free ;  20 

Nor  purer  sword  led  braver  band, 
Nor  braver  bled  for  a  brighter  land, 
Nor  brighter  land  had  a  cause  so  grand, 

Nor  cause  a  chief  like  Lee  ! 

Forth  from  its  scabbard!  How  we  prayed       25 

That  sword  might  victor  be ! 
And  when  our  triumph  was  delayed, 
And  many  a  heart  grew  sore  afraid, 
We  still  hoped  on  while  gleamed  the  blade 

Of  noble  Robert  Lee.  30 

Forth  from  its  scabbard  all  in  vain 
Bright  flashed  the  sword  of  Lee; 
'T  is  shrouded  now  in  its  sheath  again, 
It  sleeps  the  sleep  of  our  noble  slain, 
Defeated,  yet  without  a  stain,  35 

Proudly  and  peacefully. 

A  LAND   WITHOUT  RUINS 
Abram  J.  Ryan 

A  land  without  ruins  is  a  land  without  memories;  —  a  land  without 
memories  is  a  land  without  history.  A  land  that  wears  a  laurel  crown 
may  be  fair  to  see  ;  but  twine  a  few  sad  cypress  leaves  around  the 
brow  of  any  land,  and  be  that  land  barren,  beautiless,  and  bleak,  it 
becomes  lovely  in  its  consecrated  coronet  of  sorrow,  and  it  wins  the 
sympathy  of  the  heart  and  of  history.  Crowns  of  roses  fade  —  crowns 
of  thorns  endure.  Calvaries  and  crucifixions  take  deepest  hold  of  hu- 


G6  SOUTHERN   POEMS 

manity  —  the  triumphs  of  might  are  transient  —  they  pass  and  are 
forgotten  —  the  sufferings  of  right  are  graven  deepest  on  the  chronicle 
of  nations. 

Yes,  give  me  the  land  where  the  ruins  are  spread, 
And  the  living  tread  light  on  the  hearts  of  the  dead ; 
Yes,  give  me  a  land  that  is  blest  by  the  dust, 
And  bright  with  the  deeds  of  the  down-trodden  just. 
Yes,  give  me  the  land  where  the  battle's  red  blast      5 
Has  flashed  to  the  future  the  fame  of  the  past ; 
Yes,  give  me  the  land  that  hath  legends  and  lays 
That  tell  of  the  memories  of  long  vanished  days : 
Yes,  give  me  a  land  that  hath  story  and  song ! 
Enshrine  the  strife  of  the  right  with  the  wrong!       10 
Yes,  give  me  a  land  with  a  grave  in  each  spot, 
And  names  in  the  graves  that  shall  not  be  forgot ; 
Yes,  give  me  the  land  of  the  wreck  and  the  tomb  ; 
There  is  grandeur  in  graves  —  there  is  glory  in  gloom ; 
For  out  of  the  gloom  future  brightness  is  born,        15 
As  after  the  night  comes  the  sunrise  of  morn ; 
And  the  graves  of  the  dead  with  the  grass  overgrown 
May  yet  form  the  footstool  of  liberty's  throne, 
And  each  single  wreck  in  the  war-path  of  night, 
Shall  yet  be  a  rock  in  the  temple  of  right.  20 

BETTER  THAN  GOLD 

Abram  J.  Ryan 

Better  than  grandeur,  better  than  gold, 

Than  rank  and  titles  a  thousand  fold, 

Is  a  healthy  body  and  a  mind  at  ease, 

And  simple  pleasures  that  always  please, 

A  heart  that  can  feel  for  another's  woe,  5 

With  sympathies  large  enough  to  enfold 

All  men  as  brothers,  is  better  than  gold. 


ABRAM   J.  RYAN  67 

Better  than  gold  is  a  conscience  clear, 

Though  toiling  for  bread  in  an  humble  sphere, 

Doubly  blessed  with  content  and  health,  10 

Untried  by  the  lusts  and  cares  of  wealth, 

Lowly  living  and  lofty  thought 

Adorn  and  ennoble  a  poor  man's  cot ; 

For  mind  and  morals  in  nature's  plan 

Are  the  genuine  tests  of  a  gentleman.  15 

Better  than  gold  is  the  sweet  repose 

Of  the  sons  of  toil  when  the  labors  close  ; 

Better  than  gold  is  the  poor  man's  sleep, 

And  the  balm  that  drops  on  his  slumbers  deep 

Bring  sleeping  draughts  on  the  downy  bed,  20 

Where  luxury  pillows  its  aching  head, 

The  toiler  simple  opiate  deems 

A  shorter  route  to  the  land  of  dreams. 

Better  than  gold  is  a  thinking  mind, 

That  in  the  realm  of  books  can  find  25 

A  treasure  surpassing  Australian  ore, 

And  live  with  the  great  and  good  of  yore. 

The  sage's  lore  and  the  poet's  lay, 

The  glories  of  empires  passed  away ; 

The  world's  great  dream  will  thus  unfold  30 

And  yield  a  pleasure  better  than  gold. 

Better  than  gold  is  a  peaceful  home 

Where  all  the  fireside  characters  come, 

The  shrine  of  love,  the  heaven  of  life, 

Hallowed  by  mother,  or  sister,  or  wife.  35 

However  humble  the  home  may  be, 

Or  tried  with  sorrow  by  heaven's  decree, 

The  blessings  that  never  were  bought  or  sold, 

And  centre  there,  are  better  than  gold. 


68  SOUTHERN  POEMS 

ALL  QUIET  ALONG  THE   POTOMAC 
TO-NIGHT1 

"  All  quiet  along  the  Potomac,"  they  say, 

"  Except  now  and  then  a  stray  picket 
Is  shot,  as  he  walks  on  his  beat,  to  and  fro, 

By  a  rifleman  hid  in  the  thicket. 
'T  is  nothing  —  a  private  or  two,  now  and  then,        5 

Will  not  count  in  the  news  of  the  battle ; 
Not  an  officer  lost  —  only  one  of  the  men, 

Moaning  out,  all  alone,  the  death-rattle." 

All  quiet  along  the  Potomac  to-night, 

Where  the  soldiers  lie  peacefully  dreaming ;      10 

1  This  famous  poem  is  accredited  to  Ethelinda  (Elliott) 
Beers,  "Ethel  Lynn  Beers"  (1827-79)  and  is  contained  in  a 
volume  of  1879  entitled  All 's  Quiet  Along  the  Potomac,  and  Other 
Poems.  The  internal  evidence  points  to  authorship  by  a  soldier, 
not  by  a  woman,  and  by  some  one  acquainted  with  the  locality  and 
conditions,  not  by  an  absentee  ;  but  the  direct  evidence  is  more 
significant.  To  quote  Dr.  C.  Alphonso  Smith  (The  Library  0/ 
Southern  Literature,  vol.  14,  p.  6083)  :  "  The  evidence  seems 
conclusive,  however,  for  Thaddeus  Oliver,  of  Twiggs  County, 
Georgia.  The  poem  was  first  published  unsigned  on  October  21, 
1861, '  in  a  Northern  newspaper.'  In  Harper's  Weekly,  of  Novem- 
ber 30,  1861,  it  reappeared  with  Mrs.  Beers's  initials  attached. 
Mr.  Oliver,  however,  wrote  the  poem  in  August,  1861,  and 
read  it  to  several  friends  in  camp  with  him  in  Virginia.  In  a  let- 
ter dated  '  Camp  2dGa.  Regt.  near  Centreville,  Va.,  October  3, 
1861,'  Mr.  John  D.  Ashton,  of  Georgia,  writing  to  his  wife,  says  : 
'  Upon  my  arrival  at  home,  should  I  be  so  fortunate  as  to  ob- 
tain the  hoped-for  furlough,  I  will  read  you  the  touching  and 
beautiful  poem  mentioned  in  my  letter  of  last  week,  "  All 
Quiet  Along  the  Potomac  To-night,"  written  by  my  girlishly 
viodest  friend,  Thaddeus  Oliver,  of  the  Buena  Vista  Guards .'  " 
For  further  evidence  see  Southern  Historical  Society  Papers, 
vol.  viii,  pp.  255-60. 


THADDEUS   OLIVER  69 

Their  tents  in  the  rays  of  the  clear  autumn  moon, 
Or  the  light  of  the  watch-fires,  are  gleaming. 

A  tremulous  sigh,  as  the  gentle  night-wind 
Through  the  forest-leaves  softly  is  creeping ; 

While  stars  up  above,  with  their  glittering  eyes,    15 
Keep  guard  —  for  the  army  is  sleeping. 

There 's  only  the  sound  of  the  lone  sentry's  tread, 

As  he  tramps  from  the  rock  to  the  fountain, 
And  thinks  of  the  two  in  the  low  trundle-bed 

Far  away  in  the  cot  on  the  mountain.  20 

His  musket  falls  slack  —  his  face,  dark  and  grim, 

Grows  gentle  with  memories  tender, 
As  he  mutters  a  prayer  for  the  children  asleep  — 

For  their  mother  —  may  Heaven  defend  her  ! 

The  moon  seems  to  shine  just  as  brightly  as  then,    25 

That  night,  when  the  love  yet  unspoken 
Leaped  up  to  his  lips  —  when  low-murmured  vows 

Were  pledged  to  be  ever  unbroken. 
Then  drawing  his  sleeve  roughly  over  his  eyes, 

He  dashes  off  tears  that  are  welling,  30 

And  gathers  his  gun  closer  up  to  its  place 

As  if  to  keep  down  the  heart-swelling. 

He  passes  the  fountain,  the  blasted  pine  tree  — 

The  footstep  is  lagging  and  weary ; 
Yet  onward  he  goes,  through'the  broad  belt  of  light, 

Toward  the  shades  of  the  forest  so  dreary.  36 

Hark !  was  it  the  night-wind  that  rustled  the  leaves  ? 

Was  it  moonlight  so  wondrously  flashing? 
It  looked  like  a  rifle  —  "  Ah  !  Mary,  good-bye ! " 

And  the  life-blood  is  ebbing  and  plashing.  40 


70  SOUTHERN  POEMS 

All  quiet  along  the  Potomac  to-night, 
No  sound  save  the  rush  of  the  river ; 

While  soft  falls  the  dew  on  the  face  of  the  dead  — 
The  picket 's  off  duty  forever. 

THE   MONEYLESS   MAN 
Henry  Throop  Stanton 

Is  there  no  secret  place  on  the  face  of  the  earth 
Where  charity  dwelleth,  where  virtue  has  birth? 
Where  bosoms  in  mercy  and  kindness  will  heave, 
When  the  poor  and  the  wretched  shall  ask  and  re- 
ceive ? 
Is  there  no  place  at  all  where  a  knock  from  the  poor 
Will  bring  a  kind  angel  to  open  the  door  ?  6 

Ah,  search  the  wide  world  wherever  you  can, 
There  is  no  open  door  for  a  Moneyless  Man ! 

Go,  look  in  yon  hall  where  the  chandelier's  light 
Drives  off  with  its  splendor  the  darkness  of  night,   10 
Where  the  rich  hanging  velvet  in  shadowy  fold 
Sweeps  gracefully  down  with  its  trimmings  of  gold, 
And  the  mirrors  of  silver  take  up,  and  renew, 
In  long  lighted  vistas  the  'wildering  view : 
Go  there  !  at  the  banquet,  and  find  if  you  can,  15 

A  welcoming  smile  for  a  Moneyless  Man! 

Go,  look  in  yon  church  of  the  cloud-reaching  spire, 
Which  gives  to  the  sun  his  same  look  of  red  fire, 
Where  the  arches  and  columns  are  gorgeous  within, 
And  the  walls  seem  as  pure  as  a  soul  without  sin  ;     20 
Walk  down  the  long  aisles,  see  the  rich  and  the  great 
In  the  pomp  and  the  pride  of  their  worldly  estate  ; 


HENRY  THROOP  STANTON       71 

Walk  down  in  your  patches,  and  find,  i£  you  can, 
Who  opens  a  pew  to  a  Moneyless  Man. 

Go,  look  in  the  Banks,  where  Mammon  has  told       25 
His  hundreds  and  thousands  of  silver  and  gold ; 
Where,  safe  from  the  hands  of  the  starving  and  poor, 
Lies  pile  upon  pile  of  the  glittering  ore  ! 
Walk  up  to  their  counters  —  ah,  there  you  may  stay 
Till  your  limbs  grow  old,  till  your  hairs  grow  gray, 
And  you  '11  find  at  the  Banks  not  one  of  the  clan      31 
With  money  to  lend  to  a  Moneyless  Man ! 

Go,  look  to  yon  Judge,  in  his  dark-flowing  gown, 
With  the  scales  wherein  law  weigheth  equity  down  ; 
Where  he  frowns  on  the  weak  and  smiles  on  the  strong, 
And  punishes  right  whilst  he  justifies  wrong  ;  36 

Where  juries  their  lips  to  the  Bible  have  laid, 
To  render  a  verdict  —  they  've  already  made ; 
Go  there,  in  the  court-room,  and  find  if  you  can, 
Any  law  for  the  cause  of  a  Moneyless  Man ;  40 

Then  go  to  your  hovel  —  no  raven  has  fed 
The  wife  who  has  suffered  too  long  for  her  bread ; 
Kneel  down  by  her  pallet,  and  kiss  the  death-frost 
From  the  lips  of  the  angel  your  poverty  lost ; 
Then  turn  in  your  agony  upward  to  God,  45 

And  bless  while  it  smites  you  the  chastening  rod, 
And  you  '11  find,  at  the  end  of  your  life's  little  span, 
There 's  a  welcome  above  for  a  Moneyless  Man ! 


72  SOUTHERN  POEMS 

SOMEBODY'S   DARLING1 

Marie  La  Coste 

Into  a  ward  of  the  whitewashed  halls 

Where  the  dead  and  the  dying  lay,  — 
Wounded  by  bayonets,  shells,  and  balls,  — 

Somebody's  darling  was  borne  one  day. 
Somebody's  darling  !  so  young  and  so  brave  :     t 

Wearing  still  on  his  pale  sweet  face  — 
Soon  to  be  hid  by  the  dust  of  the  grave  — 

The  lingering  light  of  his  boyhood's  grace. 

Matted  and  damp  are  the  curls  of  gold 

Kissing  the  snow  of  that  fair  young  brow;    10 
Pale  are  the  lips  of  delicate  mold,  — 

Somebody's  darling  is  dying  now. 
Back  from  the  beautiful  blue-veined  brow 

Brush  every  wandering  silken  thread, 
Cross  his  hands  on  his  bosom  now,  —  15 

Somebody's  darling  is  still  and  dead ! 

Kiss  him  once  for  somebody's  sake  ; 

Murmur  a  prayer,  both  soft  and  low  ; 
One  bright  curl  from  its  fair  mates  take  — 

They  were  somebody's  pride,  you  know.        20 
Somebody's  hand  has  rested  there ; 

Was  it  a  mother's,  soft  and  white  ? 
Or  have  the  lips  of  a  sister  fair 

Been  baptized  in  those  waves  of  light  ? 

God  knows  best !  He  was  somebody's  love  ;      25 
Somebody's  heart  enshrined  him  there  — 
1  Written  between  the  years  1861-65. 


SIDNEY   LANIER  73 

Somebody  wafted  his  name  above, 

Night  and  morn,  on  the  wings  of  prayer. 

Somebody  wept  when  he 'marched  away, 

Looking  so  handsome,  brave,  and  grand;      30 

Somebody's  kiss  on  his  forehead  lay, 
Somebody  clung  to  his  parting  hand. 

Somebody 's  watching  and  waiting  for  him, 

Yearning  to  hold  him  again  to  her  heart ; 
And  there  he  lies  —  with  his  blue  eyes  dim,      35 

And  the  smiling,  child-like  lips  apart. 
Tenderly  bury  the  fair  young  dead, 

Pausing  to  drop  on  his  grave  a  tear ; 
Carve  on  the  wooden  slab  o'er  his  head, 

"  /Sbmeio6??/'s  darling  slumbers  here  I "         40 

BALLAD  OF  TREES  AND  THE  MASTER1 

Sidney  Lanier 

Into  the  woods  my  Master  went, 

Clean  forspent,  forspent, 

Into  the  woods  my  Master  came, 

Forspent  with  love  and  shame. 

But  the  olives  they  were  not  blind  to  Him,         5 

The  little  gray  leaves  were  kind  to  Him : 

The  thorn  tree  had  a  mind  to  Him 

When  into  the  woods  He  came. 

Out  of  the  woods  my  Master  went, 

And  He  was  well  content.  10 

Out  of  the  woods  my  Master  came, 

1  This  poem  and  The  Mockingbird  are  printed  by  courtesy  of 
Charles  Scribner's  Sons,  publishers  of  Lanier's  Poems. 


74  SOUTHERN  POEMS 

Content  with  death  and  shame. 

When  Death  and  Shame  would  woo  Him  last, 

From  under  the  trees  they  drew  Him  last : 

'T  was  on  a  tree  they  slew  Him  last,  15 

When  out  of  the  woods  He  came. 


THE   MOCKINGBIRD 

Sidney  Lanier 

Superb  and  sole,  upon  a  plumed  spray 

That  o'er  the  general  leafage  boldly  grew, 

He  summ'd  the  woods  in  song ;  or  typic  drew 

The  watch  of  hungry  hawks,  the  lone  dismay 

Of  languid  doves  when  long  their  lovers  stray,  5 

And  all  birds'  passion-plays  that  sprinkle  dew 

At  morn  in  brake  or  bosky  avenue. 

Whate'er  birds  did  or  dreamed,  this  bird  could  say. 

Then  down  he  shot,  bounced  airily  along 

The  sward,  twitched  in  a  grasshopper,  made  song    10 

Midnight,  perched,  prinked,  and  to  his  art  again. 

Sweet  Science,  this  large  riddle  read  me  plain  : 

How  may  the  death  of  that  dull  insect  be 

The  life  of  yon  trim  Shakespeare  on  the  tree  ? 


JOHN   HENRY  BONER  75 

POE'S   COTTAGE  AT  FORDHAM 

John  Henry  Boner 

Edgar  Allan  Poe,  with  his  wife,  Virginia  Clemm,  and  her  mother, 
lived  in  a  small  cottage  at  Fordham,  then  outside  of  the  city  of  New 
York,  from  the  early  summer  of  1846  to  1847.  Virginia  Poe  died  there 
on  January  30,  1847. 

Here  lived  the  soul  enchanted 

By  melody  of  song ; 
Here  dwelt  the  spirit  haunted 

By  a  demoniac  throng ; 
Here  sang  the  lips  elated  ;  5 

Here  grief  and  death  were  sated ; 
Here  loved  and  here  unmated 

Was  he,  so  frail,  so  strong. 

Here  wintry  winds  and  cheerless 

The  dying  firelight  blew,  10 

While  he  whose  song  was  peerless 

Dreamed  the  drear  midnight  through, 

And  from  dull  embers  chilling 

Crept  shadows  darkly  filling 

The  silent  place,  and  thrilling  15 

His  fancy  as  they  grew. 

Here,  with  brow  bared  to  heaven, 

In  starry  night  he  stood, 
With  the  lost  star  of  seven 

Feeling  sad  brotherhood.  20 

Here  in  the  sobbing  showers 
Of  dark  autumnal  hours 
He  heard  suspected  powers 

Shriek  through  the  stormy  wood. 


76  SOUTHERN  POEMS 

From  visions  of  Apollo  25 

And  of  Astarte's  bliss, 
He  gazed  into  the  hollow 

And  hopeless  vale  of  Dis; 
And  though  earth  were  surrounded 
By  heaven,  it  still  was  mounded  30 

With  graves.  His  soul  had  sounded 

The  dolorous  abyss. 

Proud,  mad,  but  not  defiant, 
He  touched  at  heaven  and  hell. 

Fate  found  a  rare  soul  pliant  35 

And  rung  her  changes  well. 

Alternately  his  lyre, 

Stranded  with  strings  of  fire, 

Led  earth's  most  happy  choir 

Or  flashed  with  Israfel.1  40 

No  singer  of  old  story 

Luting  accustomed  lays, 
No  harper  for  new  glory, 

No  mendicant  for  praise, 
He  struck  high  chords  and  splendid,  45 

Wherein  were  fiercely  blended 
Tones  that  unfinished  ended 

With  his  unfinished  days. 

Here  through  this  lowly  portal, 

Made  sacred  by  his  name,  50 

Unheralded  immortal 

The  mortal  went  and  came. 

1  Poe  prefixes  to  his  poem  Israfel  a  quotation  from  the  Koran 
in  which  this  angel  is  referred  to  as  the  spirit  of  song. 


MOLLIE   E.  MOORE   DAVIS  [  77 

And  fate  that  then  denied  him, 
And  envy  that  decried  him, 
And  malice  that  belied  him,  55 

Have  cenotaphed  his  fame. 

COUNSEL 1 

Mollie  E.  Moore  Davis 

If  thou  should'st  bid  thy  friend  farewell, 

But  for  one  night  though  that  farewell  should  be, 
Press  thou  his  hand  in  thine  ;  how  canst  thou  tell 
How  far  from  thee 

Fate,  or  caprice,  may  lead  his  feet  5 

Ere  that  to-morrow  come  ?    Men  have  been  known 
Lightly  to  turn  the  corner  of  a  street, 
And  days  have  grown 

To  months,  and  months  to  lagging  years, 

Before  they  looked  in  loving  eyes  again.  10 

Parting,  at  best,  is  underlaid  with  tears  — 
With  tears  and  pain. 

Therefore,  lest  sudden  death  should  come  between, 

Or  time,  or  distance,  clasp  with  pleasure  true 
The  palms  of  him  who  goeth  forth.     Unseen,  15 

Fate  goeth,  too  ! 

Yea,  find  thee  always  time  to  say 

Some  earnest  word  betwixt  the  idle  talk, 
Lest  with  thee  henceforth,  night  and  day, 

Regret  should  walk.  20 

1  Printed  by  courtesy  of  Mr.  Thomas  E.  Davis. 


78  SOUTHERN  POEMS 

NECTAR  AND  AMBROSIA1 

Maurice  Thompson 

If  I  were  a  poet,  my  sweetest  song 
Should  have  the  bouquet  of  scuppernong, 
With  a  racy  smack  in  every  line 
From  the  savage  juice  of  the  muscadine. 

The  russet  persimmon,  the  brown  papaw,  5 

The  red  wild  plum  and  the  summer  haw, 
Serviceberries  and  mandrake  fruit, 
Sassafras  bark  and  ginseng  root, 
Should  make  my  verse  pungent  and  sweet  by  turns ; 
And  the  odor  of  grass  and  the  freshness  of  ferns,     10 
The  kernels  of  nuts  and  the  resins  of  trees, 
The  nectar  distilled  by  the  wild  honey-bees, 
Should  be  thrown  in  together,  to  flavor  my  words 
With  the  zest  of  the  woods  and  the  joy  of  the  birds  ! 

Who  sings  by  note,  from  the  page  of  a  book,  15 

So  sweet  a  tune  as  the  brawl  of  a  brook  ? 

Shall  Homer,  or  shall  Anacreon 

Suggest  as  much  as  the  wind  or  the  sun  ? 

Give  me  a  shell  from  the  sea  so  green, 

Cut  me  a  flute  from  the  Aulocrene,  20 

Give  me  Nature's  sweets  and  sours, 

Her  barks  and  nuts,  her  fruits  and  flowers  ; 

And  all  the  music  I  make  shall  be 

Good  as  the  sap  of  the  maple-tree, 

Whilst  a  rare  bouquet  shall  fill  my  song  25 

From  the  muscadine  and  the  scuppernong. 

1  From  Poems,  copyright  1S92,  by  Maurice  Thompson,  published 
by  Houghton  Mifflin  Company. 


MAURICE  THOMPSON  79 

THE   BLUEBIRD1 

Maurice  Thompson 

When  ice  is  thawed  and  snow  is  gone, 

And  racy  sweetness  floods  the  trees  ; 
When  snow-birds  from  the  hedge  have  flown, 

And  on  the  hive-porch  swarm  the  bees  — 
Drifting  down  the  first  warm  wind  5 

That  thrills  the  earliest  days  of  spring, 
The  bluebird  seeks  our  maple  groves, 

And  charms  them  into  tasselling. 

He  sits  among  the  delicate  sprays, 

With  mists  of  splendor  round  him  drawn,         10 
And  through  the  spring's  prophetic  veil 

Sees  summer's  rich  fulfillment  dawn  ; 
He  sings,  and  his  is  nature's  voice  — 

A  gush  of  melody  sincere 
From  that  great  fount  of  harmony  15 

Which  thaws  and  runs  when  spring  is  here. 

Short  is  his  song,  but  strangely  sweet 

To  ears  aweary  of  the  low, 
Dull  tramp  of  Winter's  sullen  feet, 

Sandalled  in  ice  and  muffed  in  snow :  20 

Short  is  his  song,  but  through  it  runs 

A  hint  of  dithyrambs  yet  to  be  — 
A  sweet  suggestiveness  that  has 

The  influence  of  prophecy. 

From  childhood  I  have  nursed  a  faith  25 

In  bluebird's  songs  and  winds  of  spring  ; 

1  From  Poems,  copyright  1892,  by  Maurice  Thompson,  published 
by  Houghton  Mifflin  Company. 


80  SOUTHERN  POEMS 

They  tell  me  after  frost  and  death 

There  comes  a  time  of  blossoming ; 
And  after  snow  and  cutting  sleet, 

The  cold,  stern  mood  of  Nature  yields  30 

To  tender  warmth,  when  bare  pink  feet 

Of  children  press  her  greening  fields. 

Sing  strong  and  clear,  O  bluebird  dear  ! 

While  all  the  land  with  splendour  fills, 
While  maples  gladden  in  the  vales  35 

And  plum-trees  blossom  on  the  hills  : 
Float  down  the  wind  on  shining  wings, 

And  do  thy  will  by  grove  and  stream, 
While  through  my  life  spring's  freshness  runs 

Like  music  through  a  poet's  dream.  40 

EEGRET1 

Frances  Christine  Tiernan 

If  I  had  known,  O  loyal  heart, 
When  hand  to  hand,  we  said  farewell, 

How  for  all  time  our  paths  would  part, 
What  shadow  o'er  our  friendship  fell, 

I  should  have  clasped  your  hand  so  close  5 

In  the  warm  pressure  of  my  own, 

That  memory  still  would  keep  its  grasp, 
If  I  had  known. 

If  I  had  known,  when  far  and  wide, 

We  loitered  through  the  summer  land,  10 

What  Presence  wandered  by  our  side, 
And  o'er  you  stretched  its  awful  hand, 

1  Written  in  memory  of  Julian  Fairfax,  M.A.,  University  of 
Virginia,  1861.     Printed  by  courtesy  of  the  author. 


FRANCES   CHRISTINE  TIERNAN  81 

I  should  have  hushed  my  careless  speech, 

To  listen  well  to  every  tone 
That  from  your  lips  fell  low  and  sweet,  15 

If  I  had  known. 

If  I  had  known,  when  your  kind  eyes 
Met  mine  in  parting,  true  and  sad  — 

Eyes  gravely  tender,  gently  wise, 

And  earnest  rather  more  than  glad  —  20 

How  soon  the  lids  would  lie  above, 
As  cold  and  white  as  sculptured  stone, 

I  should  have  treasured  every  glance, 
If  I  had  known. 

If  I  had  known  how  from  the  strife  25 

Of  fears,  hopes,  passions  here  below, 

Unto  a  purer,  higher  life, 

That  you  were  called,  O  friend,  to  go, 

I  should  have  stayed  all  foolish  tears, 

And  hushed  each  idle  sigh  and  moan,  30 

To  bid  you  a  last,  long  God-speed, 
If  I  had  known. 

If  I  had  known  to  what  strange  place, 
What  mystic,  distant,  silent  shore, 

You  calmly  turned  your  steadfast  face  35 

What  time  your  footsteps  left  my  door, 

I  should  have  forged  a  golden  link 
To  bind  the  heart  so  constant  grown, 

And  kept  it  constant  even  there, 

If  I  had  known.  40 

If  I  had  known  that  until  Death 

Shall  with  his  fingers  touch  my  brow, 


82  SOUTHERN  POEMS 

And  still  the  quickening  of  the  breath 
That  stirs  with  life's  full  meaning  now, 

So  long  my  feet  must  tread  the  way  45 

Of  our  accustomed  paths  alone, 

I  should  have  prized  your  presence  more, 
If  I  had  known. 

If  I  had  known  how  soon  for  you 

Drew  near  the  ending  of  the  fight,  50 

And  on  your  vision,  fair  and  new, 

Eternal  peace  dawned  into  sight, 
I  should  have  begged,  as  love's  last  gift, 

That  you  before  God's  great  white  throne 
Would  pray  for  your  poor  friend  on  earth,       55 
If  I  had  known. 

INTIMATIONS  * 

John  Banister  Tabb 

I  knew  the  flowers  had  dreamed  of  you, 
And  hailed  the  morning  with  regret ; 

For  all  their  faces  with  the  dew 
Of  vanished  joy  were  wet. 

I  knew  the  winds  had  passed  your  way,       •       5 
Though  not  a  sound  the  truth  betrayed  ; 

About  their  pinions  all  the  day 
A  summer  fragrance  stayed. 

And  so,  awakening  or  asleep, 

A  memory  of  lost  delight  10 

By  day  the  sightless  breezes  keep, 

And  silent  flowers  by  night. 

1  The  three  following  poems  by  John  B.  Tabb  are  printed  by 
courtesy  of  Small,  Maynard  and  Company,  Inc. 


JOHN   BANISTER  TABB  83 

KEATS 

John  Banister  Tabb 

Upon  thy  tomb  'tis  graven,  "Here  lies  one 

Whose  name  is  writ  in  water."   Could  there  be 

A  flight  of  Fancy  fitlier  feigned  for  thee, 
A  fairer  motto  for  her  favorite  son  ? 

Now  crested  proud  in  tidal  majesty,  5 

Now  tranquil  as  the  twilight  reverie 
Of  some  dim  lake  the  white  moon  looks  upon, 
While  teems  the  world  with  silence.    Even  there, 

In  each  Protean  rainbow-tint  that  stains 
The  breathing  canvas  of  the  atmosphere  10 

We  read  an  exhalation  of  thy  strains : 
Thus,  on  the  scroll  of  Nature,  everywhere, 

Thy  name,  a  deathless  syllable,  remains. 

KILLDEE 

John  Banister  Tabb 

Killdee  !  Killdee  !  far  o'er  the  lea 

At  twilight  comes  the  cry. 
Killdee  !  a  marsh-mate  answereth 

Across  the  shallow  sky. 

Killdee !  Killdee  !  thrills  over  me  5 

A  rhapsody  of  light, 
As  star  to  star  gives  utterance 
Between  the  day  and  night. 

Killdee  !  Killdee !  O  Memory, 

The  twin  birds,  Joy  and  Pain,  10 

Like  shadows  parted  by  the  sun, 

At  twilight  meet  again ! 


84  SOUTHERN  POEMS 

A  TRYSTING-PLACE* 

John  Banister  Tabb 

As  stars  amid  the  darkness  seen, 

When  flows  the  deepening  dawn  between 

To  cover  them  from  sight, 
O'erleap  the  spaces  of  the  dark, 
And,  spark  to  quickening  sister-spark,  5 

Commingle  in  the  light ; 

E'en  so  a  solitary  way 

Do  we,  Beloved,  day  by  day, 

In  weariness  and  pain, 
Climb,  desolate,  from  steep  to  steep,  10 

Till,  in  the  shadowy  vale  of  Sleep, 
Our  spirits  blend  again. 

THE  WIND-STORM2 

Marguerite  E.  Easter 

All  through  the  night  the  south  wind  blew.  When 
first 
I  marked  the  tumult,  't  was  as  if  a  crowd 
From  far  away  approached  with  voice  that  loud 

And  louder  grew,  and  only  paused  to  burst 

Right  at  my  gate,  where  for  a  while  it  nursed  5 

Itself,  reposing  on  the  leaf-strewn  sod 
Complacently  ;  till  of  a  sudden,  shod 

With  strength,  it  strode  around  and,  manlike,  cursed 

1  From  a  manuscript  in  the  possession  of  Dr.  William  Hand 
Browne,  of  Johns  Hopkins  University. 

2  This  poem  and  Maple  Leaves  are  printed  by  permission  of 
Arthur  M.  Easter. 


MARGUERITE   E.  EASTER  85 

That  which  it  hurt.  The  maples  turned  one  way 

Their  white-faced  leaves  and   looked  about  to 
flee  10 

Before  its  rage ;  the  bushes  all  got  gray 

And  grisly,  as  they  crept  on  hand  and  knee ; 
And  the  whipped  clouds,  of  tears  and  speech 

bereft, 
Sullen  and  aimless,  fled  to  right  and  left. 

MAPLE   LEAVES 

Marguerite  E.  Easter 

On  smooth-skinned,  sappy  boughs  of  darker  brown 
The  woolly  wads  of  buds  are  folded  down, 
Each  swaddled  in  a  rumpled,  fuzzy  gown. 

The  chilling  breezes  cannot  get  to  them, 

Thus  closely  cuddled  to  the  mother  stem,  5 

Their  feet  wrapped  in  their  red  frock's  ruffled  hem. 

Betimes  their  yellow  tendrils  looser  curl, 
Betimes  their  fan-shaped  follicles  unfurl ; 
They  're  growing  stealthily,  as  grows  a  girl. 

"Waked  by  the  bluebird's  chirp,  some  balmy  day,  10 
They  '11  burst  the  sheaths  that  bind  them  and  display 
Themselves,  green-kirtled,  to  the  eyes  of  May. 


86  SOUTHERN  POEMS 

THE   GRAPEVINE   SWING1 

Samuel  Minturn  Peck 

When  I  was  a  boy  on  the  old  plantation, 

Down  by  the  deep  bayou, 
The  fairest  spot  of  all  creation, 

Under  the  arching  blue  ; 
When  the  wind  came  over  the  cotton  and  corn,      5 

To  the  long  slim  loop  I  'd  spring 
With  brown  feet  bare,  and  a  hat  brim  torn, 

And  swing  in  the  grapevine  swing. 

Swinging  in  the  grapevine  swing, 

Laughing  where  the  wild  birds  sing,  10 

I  dream  and  sigh 

For  the  days  gone  by, 
Swinging  in  the  grapevine  swing ! 

Out  —  o'er  the  water-lilies  bonnie  and  bright, 

Back  —  to  the  moss-grown  tree  ;  15 

I  shouted  and  laughed  with  a  heart  as  light 

As  a  wild  rose  tossed  by  the  breeze. 
The  mocking-bird  joined  in  my  reckless  glee, 

I  longed  for  no  angel's  wing  — 
I  was  just  as  near  heaven  as  I  wanted  to  be  20 

Swinging  in  the  grapevine  swing. 

Swinging  in  the  grapevine  swing, 
Laughing  where  the  wild  birds  sing, 

O  to  be  a  boy 

With  a  heart  full  of  joy,  25 

Swinging  in  the  grapevine  swing  ! 

1  From  Rings  and  Love  Knots,  copyright,  1892,  by  Frederick 
A.  Stokes  Company. 


WILLIAM   HAMILTON  HAYNE  87 

I  'm  weary  at  noon,  I  'm  weary  at  night, 

I  'm  fretted  and  sore  at  heart, 
And  care  is  sowing  my  locks  with  white 

As  I  wend  through  the  fevered  mart.  30 

I  'm  tired  of  the  world,  with  its  pride  and  pomp, 

And  fame  seems  a  worthless  thing. 
I  'd  barter  it  all  for  one  day's  romp, 

And  a  swing  in  the  grapevine  swing. 

Swinging  in  the  grapevine  swing,  33 

Laughing  where  the  wild  birds  sing, 

I  would  I  were  away 

From  the  world  to-day, 
Swinging  in  the  grapevine  swing ! 

VERNAL   PROPHECIES1 

William  Hamilton  Hayne 

To-day  the  wind  has  a  milder  range, 
And  seems  to  hint  of  a  secret  change ; 
For  the  gossipy  breezes  bring  to  me 
The  delicate  odor  of  buds  to  be 

In  the  gardens  and  groves  of  Spring.  5 

Those  forces  of  nature  we  cannot  see  — 
The  procreant  power  in  plant  and  tree, 
Shall  bring  at  last  to  the  waiting  thorn 
The  wealth  of  the  roses  yet  unborn 

In  the  gardens  and  groves  of  Spring.  10 

The  early  grass  in  a  sheltered  nook 
Unsheathes  its  blades  near  the  forest  brook  ; 
1  This  poem  and  A  Sea  Lyric  are  printed  by  courtesy  of  the  author. 


88  SOUTHERN  POEMS 

In  the  first  faint  green  of  the  elm  I  see 
A  gracious  token  of  leaves  to  be 

In  the  gardens  and  groves  of  Spring.  15 

The  peach-trees  brighten  the  river's  brink, 
With  their  dainty  blossoms  of  white  and  pink, 
And  over  the  orchard  there  comes  to  me 
The  subtle  fragrance  of  fruit  to  be 

In  the  gardens  and  groves  of  Spring.  20 

The  rigor  of  winter  has  passed  away, 
While  the  earth  seems  yearning  to  meet  her  May, 
And  the  voice  of  a  bird  in  melodious  glee 
Foretells  the  sweetness  of  songs  to  be 

In  the  gardens  and  groves  of  Spring.  25 


A  SEA  LYRIC 
William  Hamilton  Hayne 

There  is  no  music  that  man  has  heard 

Like  the  voice  of  the  minstrel  Sea, 
Whose  major  and  minor  chords  are  fraught 

With  infinite  mystery ; 
For  the  Sea  is  a  harp,  and  the  winds  of  God  5 

Play  over  his  rhythmic  breast, 
And  bear  on  the  sweep  of  their  mighty  wings 

The  song  of  a  vast  unrest. 

There  is  no  passion  that  man  has  sung, 

Like  the  love  of  the  deep-souled  Sea,  10 

Whose  tide  responds  to  the  Moon's  soft  light 
With  marvelous  melody ; 


DANSKE   DANDRIDGE  89 

For  the  Sea  is  a  harp,  and  the  winds  of  God 

Play  over  his  rhythmic  breast, 
And  bear  on  the  sweep  of  their  mighty  wings       15 

The  song  of  a  vast  unrest. 

There  is  no  sorrow  that  man  has  known, 

Like  the  grief  of  the  worldless  Main, 
Whose  Titan  bosom  forever  throbs 

With  an  untranslated  pain ;  20 

For  the  Sea  is  a  harp,  and  the  winds  of  God 

Play  over  his  rhythmic  breast, 
And  bear  on  the  sweep  of  their  mighty  wings 

The  sons:  of  a  vast  unrest. 


TO   MY  COMRADE   TREE1 

Danske  Dandridge 

"  The  tree  is  grown  that  shall  yield  to  each  .  .  .  his  '  last  narrow 
house  and  dark.'  "  —  County  Parson. 

Remote  in  the  woods  where  the  thrushes  chant ; 

Or  on  some  lonely  mountain  slope ; 
Or  in  a  copse,  the  cuckoo's  haunt  — 

With  fingers  pointing  to  the  cope, 
There  stands  a  tree,  there  stands  a  tree,  5 

Must  fall  before  they  bury  me. 

O  waiting  heart,  where'er  thou  art, 

At  last  thy  dust  with  mine  shall  blend ; 

For  though  we  spend  our  days  apart, 

We  come  together  at  the  end  ;  10 

And  thou  with  me,  and  I  with  thee, 

Must  lie  in  perfect  unity. 

1  Printed  by  courtesy  of  the  author. 


90  SOUTHERN  POEMS 

Within  a  cramped  confine  of  space, 
And  owning  naught  of  earth  beside, 

That  heart  must  be  my  dwelling-place  15 

For  whom  the  world  was  not  too  wide. 

A  new-time  Dryad,  mine  must  be 

The  shape  that  shall  inhabit  thee. 

Perchance  in  some  lone  wandering 

On  thine  old  roots  I  may  have  lain,  20 

And  heard  above  the  wood-birds  sing, 

While  God  looked  down  upon  us  twain ; 
And  did  I  feel  no  thrill,  with  thee, 
Of  fellowship  and  sympathy  ? 

Is  thy  strong  heart  ne'er  wearied  out,  25 

With  standing  'neath  the  overfreight 

Of  boughs  that  compass  thee  about, 

With  mass  of  green,  or  white,  a- weight? 

0  patient  tree,  O  patient  tree ! 

Dost  never  long  for  rest,  like  me  ?  30 

1  know  thou  spreadest  grateful  shade 

When  fierce  the  noontide  sun  doth  beat ; 
And  birds  their  nests  in  thee  have  made, 

And  cattle  rested  at  thy  feet : 
Heaven  grant  I  make  this  life  of  mine  35 

As  beautiful  and  brave  as  thine ! 

And  when  thy  circling  cloak  is  doffed, 
Thou  standest  on  the  storm-swept  sod 

And  liftest  thy  long  arms  aloft 

In  mute  appealing  to  thy  God:  40 

Appeal  for  me,  appeal  for  me, 

That  I  may  stand  as  steadfastly. 


MADISON   CAWEIN  91 

Let  me  fulfil  my  destiny 

And  .calmly  wait  for  thee,  0  friend  ! 
For  thou  must  fall,  and  I  must  die,  45 

And  come  together  at  the  end  — 
To  quiet  slumbering  addressed  ; 
Shut  off  from  storm  ;  shut  in  for  rest. 

Thus  lying  in  God's  mighty  hand 

While  his  great  purposes  unfold,  50 

We  '11  feel,  as  was  from  Chaos  planned, 

His  breath  inform  our  formless  mould ; 
New  shape  for  thee,  new  life  for  me, 
For  both,  a  vast  eternity. 

THE   W^HIPPOORWILL1 

Madison  Cawein 

This  bird  is  familiar  to  all  Southerners  and  is  generally  associated 
•with  sadness  and  with  negro  superstitions. 

Above  long  woodland  ways  that  led 
To  dells  the  stealthy  twilights  tread 
The  west  was  hot  geranium-red ; 

And  still,  and  still, 
Along  old  lanes,  the  locusts  sow  5 

With  clustered  curls  the  May  times  know, 
Out  of  the  crimson  afterglow, 
We  heard  the  homeward  cattle  low, 
And  then  the  far-off,  far-off  woe 

Of  "  whippoorwill !  "  of  "  whippoorwill !  "      10 

Beneath  the  idle  beechen  boughs 
We  heard  the  cow-bells  of  the  cows 

1  This  poem  and  Evening  on  the  Farm  are  printed  by  courtesy 
of  the  author. 


92  SOUTHERN  POEMS 

Come  slowly  jangling  toward  the  house ; 

And  still,  and  still, 
Beyond  the  light  that  would  not  die  15 

Out  of  the  scarlet-haunted  sky, 
Beyond  the  evening  star's  white  eye 
Of  glittering  chalcedony, 
Drained  out  of  dusk  the  plaintive  cry 

Of  "  whippoorwill !  "  of  "  whippoorwill!  "      20 

What  is  there  in  the  moon,  that  swims 
A  naked  bosom  o'er  the  limbs, 
That  all  the  wood  with  magic  dims  ? 

While  still,  while  still, 
Among  the  trees  whose  shadows  grope  25 

'Mid  ferns  and  flow'rs  the  dewdrops  ope  — 
Lost  in  faint  deeps  of  heliotrope 
Above  the  clover-scented  slope  — 
Retreats,  despairing  past  all  hope, 

The  whippoorwill,  the  whippoorwill.  30 

EVENING  ON  THE   FARM 

Madison  Cawein 

From  out  the  hills  where  twilight  stands, 
Above  the  shadowy  pasture-lands, 

With  strained  and  strident  cry, 
Beneath  pale  skies  that  sunset  bands, 

The  bull-bats  fly.  5 

A  cloud  hangs  over,  strange  of  shape, 
And,  colored  like  the  half-ripe  grape, 

Seems  some  uneven  stain 
On  heaven's  azure,  thin  as  crape, 

And  blue  as  rain.  10 


MADISON   CAWEIN  93 

By-ways,  that  sunset's  sardonyx 
O'erflares,  and  gates  the  farm-boy  clicks, 

Through  which  the  cattle  came, 
The  mullein's  stalks  seem  giant  wicks 

Of  downy  flame.  15 

From  woods  no  glimmer  enters  in, 
Above  the  streams  that,  wandering,  win 

From  out  the  violet  hills, 
Those  haunters  of  the  dusk  begin, 

The  whippoorwills.  20 

Adown  the  dark  the  firefly  marks 
Its  flight  in  golden-emerald  sparks ; 

And,  loosened  from  its  chain, 
The  shaggy  watch-dog  bounds  and  barks, 

And  barks  again.  25 

Each  breeze  brings  scents  of  hill-heaped  hay ; 
And  now  an  owlet,  far  away, 

Cries  twice  or  thrice,  "  T-o-o-w-h-o-o-  "  ; 
And  cool  dim  moths  of  mottled  gray 

Flit  through  the  dew.  30 

The  silence  sounds  its  frog-bassoon, 
Where,  on  the  woodland  creek's  lagoon, 

Pale  as  a  ghostly  girl 
Lost  'mid  the  trees,  looks  down  the  moon, 

With  face  of  pearl.  35 

Within  the  shed  where  logs,  late  hewed, 
Smell  forest-sweet,  and  chips  of  wood 
Make  blurs  of  white  and  brown, 
The  brood-hen  huddles  her  warm  brood 

Of  teetering1  down.  40 


94  SOUTHERN  POEMS 

The  clattering  guineas  in  the  tree 
Din  for  a  time ;  and  quietly 

The  hen-house,  near  the  fence, 
Sleeps,  save  for  some  brief  rivalry 

Of  cocks  and  hens.  45 

A  cow-bell  tinkles  by  the  rails, 

Where,  streaming  white  in  foaming  pails, 

Milk  makes  an  uddery  sound  ; 
While  overhead  the  black  bat  trails 

Around  and  round.  50 

The  night  is  still.  The  slow  cows  chew 
A  drowsy  cud.  The  bird  that  flew 

And  sang  is  in  its  nest. 
It  is  the  time  of  falling  dew, 

Of  dreams  and  rest.  55 

The  brown  bees  sleep ;  and  round  the  walk, 
The  garden  path,  from  stalk  to  stalk 

The  bungling  beetle  booms, 
Where  two  soft  shadows  stand  and  talk 

Among  the  blooms.  60 

The  stars  are  thick ;  the  light  is  dead 
That  dyed  the  west ;  and  Drowsyhead, 

Tuning  his  cricket-pipe, 
Nods,  and  some  apple,  round  and  red, 

Drops  over-ripe.  65 

Now  down  the  road,  that  shambles  by, 
A  window,  shining  like  an  eye 

Through  climbing  rose  and  gourd, 
Shows  where  Toil  sups  and  these  things  lie  — 

His  heart  and  hoard.  70 


WALTER   MALONE  95 

OPPOETUNITY1 

Walter  M alone 

They  do  me  wrong  who  say  I  come  no  more 
When  once  I  knock  and  fail  to  find  you  in ; 

For  every  day  I  stand  outside  your  door, 

And  bid  you  wake,  and  rise  to  fight  and  win. 

Wail  not  for  precious  chances  passed  away,  5 

Weep  not  for  golden  ages  on  the  wane  ! 

Each  night  I  burn  the  records  of  the  day  — 
At  sunrise  every  soul  is  born  again  ! 

Laugh  like  a  boy  at  splendors  that  have  sped, 

To  vanished  joys  be  blind  and  deaf  and  dumb  ;    10 

My  judgments  seal  the  dead  past  with  its  dead, 
But  never  bind  a  moment  yet  to  come. 

Though  deep  in  mire,  wring  not  your  hands  and  weep ; 

I  lend  my  arm  to  all  who  say  "  I  can  !  " 
No  shame-faced  outcast  ever  sank  so  deep,  15 

But  yet  might  rise  and  be  again  a  man ! 

Dost  thou  behold  thy  lost  youth  all  aghast  ? 

Dost  reel  from  righteous  Retribution's  blow? 
Then  turn  from  blotted  archives  of  the  past, 

And  find  the  future's  pages  white  as  snow.  20 

Art  thou  a  niourner  ?  Rouse  thee  from  thy  spell ; 

Art  thou  a  sinner  ?   Sins  may  be  forgiven  ; 
Each  morning  gives  thee  wings  to  flee  from  hell, 

Each  night  a  star  to  guide  thy  feet  to  heaven. 

1  This  poem  was  written  before  that  one  by  the  late  Senator 
J.  J.  Ingalls,  to  which  otherwise  it  would  seem  a  reply.  Printed 
by  courtesy  of  the  author,  as  also  is  Florida  Nocturne. 


96  SOUTHERN  POEMS 

FLORIDA  NOCTURNE 

Walter  Malone 

Through  midnight  shadows  purple-brown, 

The  stars  are  peeping  open-eyed  ; 

There  in  her  glowing,  silvery  gown 

The  moon  comes  like  a  radiant  bride. 

Now  sweet  and  clear  5 

From  citron  coppice  near, 

I  hear  a  mocking-bird  repine. 

In  gurgle,  gurgle,  gurgle  of  his  melodies  divine. 

From  lemon  orchards,  starred  with  blooms, 
And  bending  low  with  fragrant  fruit,  10 

Soft  odors  haunt  the  purple  glooms 
Like  whispers  of  a  lover's  lute. 
I  wait  alone 

For  you,  for  you,  my  own, 

With  love  more  spirit-like  and  sweet  15 

Than  all  the  fragile  blossoms  that  I  scatter  at  your 
feet. 

Through  green  pomegranate  trees 
I  see  the  swelling  globes  of  gold  ; 
Through  jasmine  vines  I  feel  the  breeze 
Trip  like  a  cherub,  silken-stoled ;  20 

Magnolias  loom 
With  creamy  clouds  of  bloom ; 
With  pining  they  are  pale,  my  dear, 
But  not  more  pale  with  pining  than  the  one  who  waits 
you  here. 

The  orange  fruit  swings  on  the  trees,  25 

The  sprays  of  orange  scent  the  air  ; 


HARRY   STILLWELL   EDWARDS  97 

Gold  apples  of  Hesperides, 
I  bring  their  blooms  to  wreathe  your  hair ! 
Hark  to  the  trill 

Of  yon  lone  whip-poor-will,  30 

Reminding  by  his  mournful  tune 
That  Youth  and  Love  and  Joy  must  pass,  so  soon,  so 
soon,  so  soon ! 

The  orange  odors  soon  must  faint, 
The  lemon  blossoms  soon  must  die, 
The  mocking-bird  must  end  his  plaint,  35 

Magnolias,  fading,  flutter  by. 
Then  come,  sweet  mate, 
Before  it  be  too  late ! 
While  Youth  is  blissful,  Love  divine, 
O  maiden  of  the  flower-like  face,  be  mine,  be  mine,  be 
mine !  40 


THE  VULTURE  AND  HIS  SHADOW1 

Harry  Stillwell  Edwards 

All  the  day  long  we  roam,  we  roam, 

My  shadow  fleet  and  I ; 
One  searches  all  the  land  and  sea, 

And  one  the  trackless  sky ; 
But  when  the  taint  of  death  ascends  5 

My  airy  flight  to  greet, 
As  friends  around  the  festal  board, 

We  meet !  we  meet !  we  meet ! 

Ah !  none  can  read  the  sign  we  read, 

No  eye  can  fathom  the  gales,  10 

1  Printed  by  courtesy  of  the  author. 


98  SOUTHERN  POEMS 

No  tongue  can  whisper  our  secret  deed, 

For  dead  men  tell  no  tales. 
The  spot  on  the  plains  is  miles  away ; 

But  our  wings  are  broad  and  fleet  — 
The  wave-tossed  speck  in  the  eye  of  day  15 

Is  far  —  but  we  meet !  we  meet ! 

The  voice  of  the  battle  is  haste,  oh,  haste ! 

And  down  the  wind  we  speed  ; 
The  voice  of  the  wreck  moans  up  from  the  deep, 

And  we  search  the  rank  sea  weed.  20 

The  maiden  listens  the  livelong  day 

For  the  fall  of  her  lover's  feet ; 
She  wonders  to  see  us  speeding  by  — 

She  would  die,  if  she  saw  us  meet ! 

l'envoi 
Sweeping  in  circles,  my  shadow  and  I,  25 

Leaving  no  mark  on  the  land  or  sky, 
When  the  double  circles  are  all  complete, 
At  the  bedside  of  death  we  meet !  we  meet ! 

DREAMING  IN  THE  TRENCHES1 

William  Gordon  McCabe 

I  picture  her  there  in  the  quaint  old  room, 
Where  the  fading  fire-light  starts  and  falls, 

Alone  in  the  twilight's  tender  gloom, 

With  the  shadows  that  dance  on  the  dim-lit  walls. 

Alone,  while  those  faces  look  silently  down  5 

From  their  antique  frames  in  a  grim  repose  — 

1  Petersburg  Trenches,  1864.   Printed  by  courtesy  of  the  au- 
thor. 


WILLIAM    GORDON   McCABE  99 

Slight  scholarly  Ralph  in  his  Oxford  gown, 
And  stanch  Sir  Alan,  who  died  for  Montrose.1 

There  are  gallants  gay  in  crimson  and  gold, 

There  are  smiling  beauties  with  powdered  hair,    10 

But  she  sits  there,  fairer  a  thousand-fold, 

Leaning  dreamily  back  in  her  low  arm-chair. 

And  the  roseate  shadows  of  fading  light 

Softly  clear,  steal  over  the  sweet  young  face, 

Where  a  woman's  tenderness  blends  to-night  15 

With  the  guileless  pride  of  a  knightly  race. 

Her  small  hands  lie  clasped  in  a  listless  way 

On  the  old  Romance  —  which  she  holds  on  her 
knee  — 

Of  Tristram,  the  bravest  of  knights  in  the  fray, 
And  Iseult,  who  waits  by  the  sounding  sea.  20 

And  her  proud,  dark  eyes  wear  a  softened  look 
As  she  watches  the  dying  embers  fall; 

Perhaps  she  dreams  of  the  knight  in  the  book, 
Perhaps  of  the  pictures  that  smile  on  the  wall. 

What  fancies  I  wonder  are  thronging  her  brain,      25 
For  her  cheeks  flush  warm  with  a  crimson  glow ! 

Perhaps  —  ah !  me,  how  foolish  and  vain ! 
But  I  'd  give  my  life  to  believe  it  so ! 

Well,  whether  I  ever  march  home  again 

To  offer  my  love  and  a  stainless  name,  30 

Or  whether  I  die  at  the  head  of  my  men  — 

I  '11  be  true  to  the  end  all  the  same. 

1  James  Graham,  Marquis  of  Montrose  (1612-50),  the  poet, 
and  great  soldier  and  supporter  of  Charles  I. 


100  SOUTHERN  POEMS 

THE  LAND  WHERE  WE  WERE  DREAMING1 

Daniel  Bedinger  Lucas 

Fair  were  our  nation's  visions,  and  as  grand 

As  ever  floated  out  of  fancy-land ; 
Children  were  we  in  simple  faith, 
But  god-like  children,  whom  nor  death, 
Nor  threat  of  danger  drove  from  honor's  path —   5 
In  the  land  where  we  were  dreaming1 ! 

Proud  were  our  men  as  pride  of  birth  could  render, 

As  violets  our  women  pure  and  tender ; 
And  when  they  spoke,  their  voices'  thrill 
At  evening  hushed  the  whip-poor-will ;  10 

At  morn  the  mocking  bird  was  mute  and  still, 
In  the  land  where  we  were  dreaming ! 

And  we  had  graves  that  covered  more  of  glory, 
Than  ever  taxed  the  lips  of  ancient  story; 

And  in  our  dream  we  wove  the  thread  15 

Of  principles  for  which  had  bled, 
And  suffered  long  our  own  immortal  dead, 
In  the  land  where  we  were  dreaming! 

Tho'  in  our  land  we  had  both  bond  and  free, 
Both  were  content,  and  so  God  let  them  be ;  20 

Till  Northern  glances,  slanting  down, 
With  envy  viewed  our  harvest  sun  — 
But  little  recked  we,  for  we  still  slept  on, 
In  the  land  where  we  were  dreaming ! 

1  Written  in  Canada,  where  he  had  gone  to  defend  his  friend 
John  Yates  Beall,  attainted  of  treason,  after  General  Lee's  sur- 
render. This  poem  was  first  published  in  the  Montreal  Gazette, 
Printed  by  courtesy  of  Miss  Virginia  Lucas. 


DANIEL  BEDINGER  LUCAS  101 

Our  sleep  grew  troubled,  and  our  dreams  grew  wild  ;  25 
Red  meteors  flashed  across  our  heaven's  field ; 
Crimson  the  Moon ;  between  the  Twins 
Barbed  arrows  flew  in  circling  lanes 
Of  light ;  red  Comets  tossed  their  fiery  manes 
O'er  the  land  where  we  were  dreaming !  30 

Down  from  her  eagle  height  smiled  Liberty, 

And  waved  her  hand  in  sign  of  victory  ; 
The  world  approved,  and  everywhere, 
Except  where  growled  the  Russian  bear, 
The  brave,  the  good  and  just  gave  us  their  prayer,  35 
For  the  land  where  we  were  dreaming  ! 

High  o'er  our  heads  a  starry  flag  was  seen, 
Whose  field  was  blanched,  and  spotless  in  its  sheen; 
Chivalry's  cross  its  union  bears, 
And  by  his  scars  each  vet'ran  swears  40 

To  bear  it  on  in  triumph  through  the  wars, 
In  the  land  where  we  were  dreaming ! 

We  fondly  thought  a  Government  was  ours  — 
We  challenged  place  among  the  world's  great  powers ; 
We  talk'd  in  sleep  of  rank,  commission,  45 

Until  so  life-like  grew  the  vision, 
That  he  who  dared  to  doubt  but  met  derision, 
In  the  land  where  we  were  dreaming ! 

A  figure  came  among  us  as  we  slept  — 

At  first  he  knelt,  then  slowly  rose  and  wept ;  50 

Then  gathering  up  a  thousand  spears, 

He  swept  across  the  field  of  Mars, 

Then  bowed  farewell,  and  walked  behind  the  stars, 
From  the  land  where  we  were  dreaming  1 


102  SOUTHERN  POEMS 

We  looked  again,  another  figure  still  55 

Gave  hope,  and  nerved  each  individual  will ; 
Erect  he  stood,  as  clothed  with  power ; 
Self-poised,  he  seemed  to  rule  the  hour, 
With  firm,  majestic  sway  —  of  strength  a  tower, 
In  the  land  where  we  were  dreaming !  60 

As  while  great  Jove,  in  bronze,  a  warder  god, 
Gazed  eastward  from  the  Forum  where  he  stood, 

Rome  felt  herself  secure  and  free  — 

So  Richmond,  we,  on  guard  for  thee, 

Beheld  a  bronzed  hero,  god-like  Lee,  65 

In  the  land  where  we  were  dreaming ! 

As  wakes  the  soldier  when  the  alarum  calls  — 
As  wakes  the  mother  when  her  infant  falls  — 
As  starts  the  traveler  when  around 
His  sleepy  couch  the  fire-bells  sound  —  70 

So  woke  our  nation  with  a  single  bound  — 
In  the  land  where  we  were  dreaming ! 

Woe !  woe  !  is  us,  the  startled  mothers  cried, 
While  we  have  slept,  our  noble  sons  have  died  ! 
Woe  !  woe !  is  us,  how  strange  and  sad,  75 

That  all  our  glorious  visions  fled, 
Have  left  us  nothing  real  but  our  dead, 
In  the  land  where  we  were  dreaming ! 

And  are  they  really  dead,  our  martyred  slain? 

No,  Dreamers  !  Morn  shall  bid  them  rise  again  ;     80 
From  every  plain  —  from  every  height  — 
On  which  they  seemed  to  die  for  right, 
Their  gallant  spirits  shall  renew  the  fight, 
In  the  land  where  we  were  dreaming ! 


MARY   McNEIL   FENOLLOSA  103 

Unconquered  still  in  soul,  tho'  now  o'er-run,  85 

In  peace,  in  war,  the  battle  's  just  begun  ! 
Once  this  Thyestean  banquet  o'er, 
Grown  strong'  the  few  who  bide  the  hour, 
Shall  rise  and  hurl  its  drunken  guests  from  power, 
In  the  land  where  we  were  dreaming !  90 

THE   MAGNOLIA1 

Mary  McNeil  Fenollosa 

0  flowers  of  the  garden,  of  skilled  and  human  care, 
Sweet  heliotrope,  and  violet,  and  orchid  frail  and  fair, 
Pour  out  your  love  to  happier  hearts ;  the  woodland 

flowers  for  me, 
The  pallid,  creamy  blossoms  of  the  dark  magnolia  tree  ! 

1  close  my  eyes  ;  my  soul  lifts  up  to  float  with  their  per- 

fume, 5 

And  dull  the  body  lying  in  this  narrow  city  room. 
Again  I  am  a  happy  child.  I  leap  and  joy  to  see 
The  great  curved  petals  wavering  slip  from  out  the 

gleaming  tree. 

As  holy  grail,  or  pearl  inwrought,  or  carven  ivory  cup, 
They  stand  on  bronze  and  emerald  bough,  and  brim 

their  sweetness  up ;  10 

And  underneath  a  happy  child  !  —  O  days  that  used  to 

be ! 
In  distant  land,  the  flowers  still  stand  upon  the  dark 

green  tree. 

1  From  Out  of  The  Nest,  by  Mary  McNeil  Fenollosa,  copy- 
right, 1899,  by  Little,  Brown  and  Company. 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES 

Boner,  John  Henry  :  —  born  in  Salem,  North  Carolina,  in  1845 % 
of  Moravian  lineage ;  became  printer  and  writer ;  had  govern- 
ment employment  in  Washington  ;  died  1903.  Author  of 
numerous  poems. 

Cawein,  Madison  :  —  born  in  Louisville,  Kentucky,  in  1865  ; 
lived  for  a  time  in  Indiana  ;  studied  in  Louisville  High  School  ; 
engaged  in  business  but  was  a  constant  composer  ;  lives  in 
Louisville  and  is  devoted  to  letters.  Author  of  numerous  vol- 
umes collected  in  a  uniform  edition  by  Bobbs-Merrill  Com- 
pany. 

Cooke,  Philip  Pendleton  :  —  born  in  Virginia  in  1816;  edu- 
cated at  Princeton,  where  he  began  writing  poetry;  contribu- 
tor to  Southern  Literary  Messenger ;  died  in  1850.  Author  of 
Froissart  Ballads  and  Other  Poems,  etc. 

Dandridge,  Danske  : — born  in  Denmark  in  1869,  where  her 
father,  Henry  Bedinger,  was  United  States  Minister;  lived  in 
West  Virginia  since  her  marriage ;  contributor  to  magazines. 
Author  of  Joy  and  Other  Poems,  etc. 

Davis,  Mary  Evelyn  Moore  :  — born  in  Alabama  in  1852; 
went  with  her  father  to  Texas;  began  publishing  in  1870;  mar- 
ried in  1874;  moved  to  New  Orleans;  became  a  social  leader 
and  her  home  a  center  of  literary  influence;  died  1909.  Author 
of  many  volumes  of  stories  and  poems. 

Dickson,  Samuel  Henry  :  —  born  in  Charleston,  South  Caro- 
lina, in  1798;  eminent  practitioner  of  medicine;  professor  in 
New  York  and  Philadelphia  medical  schools;  died  in  Phila- 
delphia, 1872.  Author  of  medical  books,  negro  studies,  and 
poems. 

Easter,  Marguerite  E.  :  —  born  in  Virginia  in  1839;  her 
parents,  Daniel  Rutter  and  wife,  were  of  Maryland;  married 
in  1859;  contributed  to  numerous  magazines;  death  of  her 
son  in  1888  re-created  her  poetic  spirit;  died  in  Baltimore  in 
1894.  Author  of  Clyde  and  Other  Poems,  etc. 


106  BIOGRAPHICAL   NOTES 

Edwards,  Harry  Still  well  :  —  born  in  Macon,  Georgia,  in 
1855;  practiced  law;  connected  with  Macon  Telegraph;  be- 
gan writing  for  magazines;  at  present  postmaster  in  Macon. 
Author  of  short  stories,  several  novels,  and  a  few  poems. 

Fenollosa,  Mary  McNeill  :  —  born  in  Alabama  in  18 — ;  her 
second  marriage  took  her  to  Japan,  after  which  she  began 
writing;  in  1895  married  Professor  Fenollosa,  a  distinguished 
Orientalist;  lives  in  Alabama.  Author  of  several  novels,  sev- 
eral volumes  of  poetry,  etc. 

Hayne,  Paul  Hamilton  :  —  born  in  Charleston,  South  Caro- 
lina, in  1830;  educated  at  Charleston  College;  editor;  im- 
poverished by  Civil  War;  moved  to  "Copse  Hill,"  Georgia; 
died  there  in  1886.  Author  of  numerous  magazine  articles, 
several  biographies,  Legends  and  Lyrics,  and  other  volumes  of 
poems. 

HAYNE,  William  H.  : —  born  in  Charleston,  South  Carolina,  in 
1856;  educated  mainly  at  "Copse  Hill,"  Georgia;  has  de- 
voted himself  mainly  to  literature;  lives  at  Augusta,  Georgia. 
Author  of  Sylvan  Lyrics,  etc. 

Henderson,  Philo  :  —  born  about  1822;  editor  of  paper  in 
Charlotte,  North  Carolina;  died  in  1852. 

Hope,  James  Barron  :  —  born  in  Norfolk,  Virginia,  in  1829; 
educated  at  Hampton  Academy  and  William  and  Mary  Col- 
lege; saw  sea-service;  lawyer;  contributor  to  Southern  Liter- 
ary Messenger ;  soldier  during  Confederacy;  editor  and  edu- 
cator; died  in  Norfolk  in  1887.  Author  of  many  occasional 
poems,  etc.   Poems  edited  by  his  daughter. 

Key,  Francis  Scott  :  — born  in  Frederick  County,  Maryland, 
in  1780;  educated  at  St.  John's  College,  Annapolis;  lawyer  in 
Washington,  D.C.;  died  in  1843.  His  Poems  were  edited  by 
Chief  Justice  Roger  B.  Taney. 

La  Coste,  Marie  :  — of  French  parentage  and  long  a  resident 
of  Savannah,  Georgia;  now  living  in  Washington,  D.C 

LaniER,  Sidney  :  —  bom  in  Macon,  Georgia,  in  1842;  educated 
at  Oglethorpe  College;  entered  Confederate  service;  im- 
prisoned at  Point  Lookout;  health  broken ;  appointed  lecturer 
in  Johns  Hopkins  University;  died  in  North  Carolina  in  1881. 
Author  of  many  volumes. 


BIOGRAPHICAL   NOTES  107 

Lucas,  Daniel  Bedinger  :  —  born  in  Virginia  in  1836;  edu- 
cated at  the  University  of  Virginia;  studied  Law;  served  the 
Confederacy;  became  Judge  of  Supreme  Court  of  Appeals  of 
West  Virginia;  died  1909.  Author  of  addresses,  several  vol- 
umes of  poetry,  etc.    Poems  edited  by  his  daughter. 

McCabe,  William  Gordon  :  —  born  in  Richmond,  Virginia,  in 
1841;  educated  at  the  University  of  Virginia;  served  in  Con- 
federate army;  many  years  head  master  of  a  school;  lives 
now  in  Richmond.   Author  of  poems,  reviews,  etc. 

Malone,  Walter  :  —  boru  in  Mississippi  in  1866;  began  writ- 
ing for  publication  when  he  was  thirteen;  at  sixteen  published 
a  three  hundred  page  book  of  verse;  graduated  in  law  in  1887; 
practiced  law  and  wrote  poetry  in  Memphis;  spent  several 
years  in  New  York;  now  judge  in  Memphis.  Author  of  sev- 
eral volumes  of  poetry  and  some  short  stories. 

Meek,  Alexander  Beaufort  :  —  born  in  Columbia,  South 
Carolina,  in  1814;  grew  up  in  Alabama;  educated  at  the 
University  of  Alabama;  became  lawyer,  politician,  editor, 
public  speaker,  and  author;  died  at  Columbus,  Mississippi,  in 
1865.    Author  of  Songs  and  Poems  of  the  South,  etc. 

O'Hara,  Theodore:  —  born  in  Danville,  Kentucky,  in  1820  ; 
practiced  law  ;  served  through  the  Mexican  War  and  the  Civil 
War;  became  a  planter  in  Alabama;  died  in  1867.  Author  of 
several  noted  poems. 

Oliver,  Thaddeus  :  —  born  in  Georgia  in  1826;  eloquent  lawyer 
and  a  gifted  man;  died  in  a  hospital  in  Charleston,  South 
Carolina,  in  1864.  Author  of  several  poems  and  believed  on 
good  evidence  to  be  author  of  "All 's  Quiet  along  the  Potomac 
To-night." 

Peck,  Samuel  Minturn  :  —  born  in  Alabama  in  1854;  lived  for 
a  time  in  Illinois,  but  returned  to  Alabama  in  1867;  gradu- 
ated from  University  of  Alabama  and  in  medicine  from  Belle- 
vue,  New  York ;  began  writing  early ;  has  spent  much  time 
abroad,  though  he  counts  Tuscaloosa  his  home.  Author  of 
Cap  and  Bells,  Rings  and  Love-Knots,  Rhymes  and  Roses,  etc., 
as  well  as  of  short  stories  and  sketches. 

Pike,  Albert:  —  born  in  Boston  in  1809;  lived  in  Arkansas, 
where  he  was  editor,  lawyer,  soldier;  moved  to  Washington, 


108  BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES 

where  he  died  in  1891.  Contributed  to  Blackwood's;  author  of 
Prose  Sketches  and  Poems  and  other  works. 

Pinkney,  Edward  Coote  :  — born  in  London,  England,  where 
his  father  was  Minister,  in  1802;  entered  United  States  Navy; 
withdrew  and  became  lawyer;  later  journalist;  died  in  1828. 
Author  of  a  number  of  poems. 

Poe,  Edgak  Allan: — born  iu  Boston  in  1809;  adopted  by 
Mrs.  Allan  in  Richmond,  Virginia;  educated  in  England  and 
at  the  University  of  Virginia  and  West  Point;  died  in  Balti- 
more in  1849.  Author  of  poems,  stories,  criticisms,  etc. 

Preston,  Margaret  Junkin  :  —  born  in  Pennsylvania  in  1820; 
moved  with  her  father,  Rev.  George  Junkin,  to  Lexington, 
Virginia;  married  Colonel  J.  T.  L.  Preston;  died  in  Lexing- 
ton in  1897.  Author  of  Beecheribrook,  a  Rhyme  of  the  War; 
Old  Songs  and  New,  etc. 

Randall,  James  Ryder:  —  born  in  Baltimore  in  1839;  edu- 
cated at  Georgetown  College;  traveled  much  and  became 
professor  in  Louisiana;  employed  as  private  secretary  in  Wash- 
ington; editor;  died  in  Augusta,  Georgia,  in  1908.  Poems 
edited  by  Matthew  Page  Andrews. 

Ryan,  Abram  J.:  —  born  probably  in  Norfolk,  Virginia,  about 
1836;  educated  for  the  Catholic  priesthood;  served  in  many 
parishes;  served  as  chaplain  in  the  Civil  War;  edited  Banner 
of  the  South;  died  in  Louisville,  Kentucky,  in  1886.  Poems 
were  first  published  in  Mobile. 

Simms,  William  Gilmore  :  —  born  iu  Charleston,  South  Caro- 
lina, in  1806;  traveled  through  unexplored  South;  settled  near 
Charleston;  edited  several  magazines;  died  in  1870.  Author 
of  numerous  novels  and  volumes  of  poetry. 

Stanton,  Henry  Throop  :  —  born  in  Alexandria,  Virginia,  in 
1834;  educated  in  Maysville,  Kentucky;  entered  West  Point 
but  withdrew;  became  editor,  then  lawyer;  was  adjutant-gen- 
eral in  Confederacy;  returned  to  editorship;  died  in  Frank- 
fort, Kentucky,  in  1899.  Author  of  The  Moneyless  Man  and 
Other  Poems,  etc. 

Tabb,  John  Banister  :  —  born  in  Virginia  in  1845;  education 
interrupted  by  weak  eyes;  saw  service  in  Civil  War  and  was 


BIOGRAPHICAL   NOTES  109 

captured;  studied  for  Episcopal  orders,  but  was  converted  to 
Roman  Catholicism;  studied  in  St.  Charles  College  and  was 
made  professor;  died  there  in  1909.  Author  of  Poems,  Lyrics, 
etc. 

Thompson,  John  Reuben  :  —  born  in  Richmond,  Virginia,  in 
1823;  educated  at  the  University  of  Virginia;  graduated  in 
law;  editor  of  the  Southern  Literary  Messenger;  contributor 
during  Civil  War  to  English  journals  ;  died  in  New  York  in 
1873.  Author  of  numerous  poems. 

Thompson,  Maurice: — born  in  Indiana  in  1844;  identified 
with  Georgia;  entered  the  Confederate  service;  later  returned 
to  Indiana,  but  spent  much  time  in  the  South;  lawyer,  poli- 
tician, editor,  and  author;  died  in  Crawfordsville,  Indiana,  in 
1902.  Author  of  several  novels,  books  on  archery,  poems,  etc. 

Ticknor,  Francis  Orray:  —  born  in  Georgia  in  1822;  studied 
and  practiced  medicine;  a  fluent  versifier;  died  in  1874.  His 
poems  have  been  edited  by  Miss  Michelle  Cutliff  Ticknor. 

Tiernan,  Frances  Christine:  —  better  known  as  Christian 
Reid;  born  in  Salisbury,  North  Carolina,  in  1846;  began  her 
literary  career  in  1870;  married  in  1887  and  lived  much  in 
Mexico;  since  1898,  when  her  husband  died,  mainly  interested 
in  her  church.  Author  of  numerous  novels  and  short  stories. 

Timrod,  Henry:  —  born  in  Charleston,  South  Carolina,  in  1829; 
attended  University  of  Georgia;  tried  law,  took  to  journalism; 
contributed  many  poems  to  Southern  magazines;  died  in 
Columbia,  South  Carolina,  in  1867.  Poems  edited  first  by 
Paul  Hamilton  Hayne;  later  edition  by  J.  P.  Kennedy  Bryan. 

Tucker,  St.  George  :  —  born  in  Bermuda,  in  1752 ;  came  to  Vir- 
ginia early  in  life;  married  the  mother  of  John  Randolph  of 
Roanoke;  became  a  prominent  jurist,  professor  of  law  in 
William  and  Mary  College;  author  of  Days  of  My  Youth  and 
Other  Poems,  Commentary  on  the  Constitution,  Dissertation  on 
Slavery,  etc.;  died  in  1828. 

Wilde,  Richard  Henry  :  —  born  in  Dublin,  Ireland,  in  1789; 
brought  to  America  at  eight;  studied  law  in  Georgia  and  be- 
came Attorney-General  of  the  State;  Member  of  Congress; 
extensive  traveler;  professor  of  law  in  University  of  Louisi- 
ana; died  in  1847.     He  was  the  author  of  lyrics  and  odes. 


INDEX  OF  TITLES 


All  Quiet  Along  The   Potomac, 

Thaddeus  Oliver,  68. 
Annabel  Lee,  E.  A.  Poe,  13. 
Bacon's  Epitaph,  Anonymous,  1. 
Ballad  of  Trees  and  the  Master, 

Sidney  Lanier,  73. 
Before  Death,  M.  J.  Preston,  40. 
Better  Than  Gold,  A.   J.  By  an, 

66. 
Bivouac   of   the    Dead,    Theodore 

O'Hara,  27. 
Bluebird,  Maurice  Thompson,  79. 
Carcassonne,  J.  B.  Thompson,  36. 
Common  Thought,  A,  Henry  Tim- 
rod,  47. 
Conquered   Banner,  A.  J.  Byan, 

62. 
Cotton  Boll,  Henry  Timrod,  49. 
Counsel,  M.  E.  M.  Davis,  77. 
Cypress  and  Pine,  S-  H.  Dickson, 

6. 
Days    of   my   Youth,    St.    George 

Tucker,  2. 
Dream  of  the  South  Wind,  P.  H. 

Hayne,  56. 
Dreaming  in  the  Trenches,  W.  G. 

McCabe,  98. 
Evening   on   the  Farm,    Madison 

Cawein,  92. 
Florence  Vane,  P.  P.  Cooke,  25. 
Florida  Nocturne,  Walter  Malone, 

96. 
Gone    Forward,    M.   J.    Preston, 

43. 
Grapevine    Swing,    S.    M.    Peck, 

86. 
Health,  A,  E.  C.  Pinkney,  7. 
In  Harbor,  P.  H.  Hayne,  58. 
Intimations,  J.  B.  Tabb,  82. 
Israfel,  E.  A.  Poe,  11. 
Keats,  J.  B.  Tabb,  83. 
Killdee,  J.  B.  Tabb,  83. 
Land  of  the  South,  A.  B.  Meek, 

23. 
Land  Where  we  were  Dreaming, 

D.  B.  Lucas,  100. 


Land  Without  Ruins,  A.  J.  Byan, 

65. 
Little  Giffen,  F.  O.  Ticknor,  32. 
Long  Ago,  Philo  Henderson,  30. 
Magnolia,  M.  McN.  Fenollosa,  103. 
Maple  Leaves,  M.  E.  Easter,  85. 
Maryland,   My   Maryland,   J.  B. 

Bandall,  59. 
Mockingbird,   Ode  to  the,  Albert 

Pike,  21. 
Mockingbird,  The,  Sidney  Lanier, 

74. 
Moneyless  Man,  H.  T.  Stanton,  70. 
Music  in  Camp,  J.  B.  Thompson, 

33. 
My  Comrade  Tree,  Danske  Dan- 

dridge,  89. 
My  Life  is  Like  the  Summer  Rose, 

B.  H  Wilde,  5. 
My  Study,  P.  H.  Hayne,  54. 
Nectar    and    Ambrosia,    Maurice 

Thompson,  78. 
Ode   for  Decoration  Day,  Henry 

Timrod,  48. 
Opportunity,  Walter  Malone,  95. 
Our  Anglo-Saxon  Tongue,  J.  B. 

Hope,  46. 
Pine's    Mystery,    P.    H.    Hayne, 

55. 
Poe's  Cottage  at  Fordham,  J.  H. 

Boner,  75. 
Raven,  E.  A.  Poe,  15. 
Regret,  F.  C.  Tiernan,  80. 
Resignation,  St.  George  Tucker,  2. 
Sea  Lyric,  W-  H.  Hayne,  88. 
Shade  of  the  Trees,  M.  J.  Pres- 
ton, 42. 
Somebody's    Darling,    Marie    La 

Coste,  72. 
Star-Spangled  Banner,  F.  S.  Key, 

3. 
Swamp  Fox,  W-  G.  Simms,  8. 
Sword  of  Lee,  A.  J.  Byan,  64. 
Trysting-Place,  J.  B.  Tabb,  84. 
Vernal  Prophecies,  W.  H.  Hayne, 

87. 


112 


INDEX  OF   TITLES 


Vulture  and  his  Shadow,  II.  S. 

Edwards,  97. 
Washington  —  Pater  Patriae,  J.  B. 

Hope,  44. 
Whippoorwill,    Madison    Cawein, 

91. 


Will  and  the  Wing,  P.  H.  Hayne, 

55. 
Window-Panes  at  Brandon,  J.  H. 

Thorrqison,  38. 
Wind-storm,  The,  M.  E.  Easter, 

84. 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS 


Boner,  John  Henry,  75. 
Cawein,  Madison,  91. 
Cooke,  Philip  Pendleton,  25. 
Dandridge,  Danske,  89. 
Davis,  Mollie  Evelyn  Moore,  77. 
Dickson,  Samuel  Henry,  6. 
Easter,   Marguerite   Elizabeth, 

84. 
Edwards,  Harry  Stillwell,  97. 
Fenollosa,  Mary  McNeil,  103. 
Hayne,  Paul  Hamilton,  54. 
Hayne,  William  Hamilton,  87. 
Henderson,  Philo,  30. 
Hope,  James  Barron,  44. 
Key,  Francis  Scott,  3. 
La  Coste,  Marie,  72. 
Lanier,  Sidney,  73. 
Lucas,  Daniel  Bedinger,  100. 
McCabe,  William  Gordon,  98. 
Malone,  Walter,  95. 


Meek,  Alexander  Beaufort,  23. 
O'Hara,  Theodore,  27. 
Oliver,  Thaddeus,  68. 
Peck,  Samuel  Minturn,  86. 
Pike,  Albert,  21. 
Pinkney,  Edward  Coote,  7. 
Poe,  Edgar  Allan,  11. 
Preston,  Margaret  Junkin,  40. 
Randall,  James  Ryder,  59. 
Ryan,  Abram  J.,  62. 
Simms,  William  Gilmgre,  8. 
Stanton,  Henry  Throop,  70. 
Tabb,  John  Banister,  82. 
Thompson,  Maurice,  78. 
Thompson,  John  Reuben,  33. 
Ticknor,  Francis  Orray,  32. 
Tiernan,  Frances  Christine,  80. 
Timrod,  Henry,  47. 
Tucker,  St.  George,  2. 
Wilde,  Richard  Henry,  5. 


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